


I'm Telling You I'm Lonely Too

by RabbitRunnah



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (but only in the sense that it exists in this 'verse because nobody actually gets sick), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Corporate Setting, Based on the Tumblr prompt "And they were ZOOMmates", Love in the Time of Covid-19, M/M, Quarantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitRunnah/pseuds/RabbitRunnah
Summary: Colleagues Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle have never really connected, despite working on the same team to bring tennis star Camilla Collins' cookbook to market. But sheltering in place orders have a way of changing everything.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 187
Kudos: 478





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the [Tumblr prompt](https://ao3commentoftheday.tumblr.com/post/613719965388947456/of-course-i-love-and-they-were-quarantined-but) that is, essentially, "And they were ZOOMmates." I've taken some liberties with the timeline for storytelling purposes, so things don't quite match up to our current season.

It’s the second week of working from home, and Bittle is still getting dressed up for the daily Zoom conference as if he was actually planning to come into the office. Hair combed and gelled into place, button down shirt, bow tie. If Jack has to guess, he’d say he’s wearing the skinny khakis he likes, but obviously he can’t tell because Bittle’s camera is positioned so he can only be seen from the chest up.

Jack glances down at his own sweater, wondering if he’s underdressed before deciding it’s fine. He’d wear this on a casual Friday, and what is working from home during a shelter in place order than one long, endless casual Friday? Nobody will know he’s also wearing the jeans that are stained with paint from when he painted his bathroom last summer.

“Are we all here?” Georgia Martin, president and publisher of Wordsmith Books, sounds tinny through Jack’s laptop speakers. “If we’re all here, let’s get started. Chloe’s teacher is having a Google Classroom meeting in an hour so my time is at a goddamn premium.”

George’s time is always at a premium, but Jack wisely says nothing as she powers on, giving a general update about the state of the company and industry as a whole. Publishing has been in a state of flux since before Jack got his first industry job as an editorial assistant, and some see it as nothing short of a miracle that George has been able to keep her small, independent press afloat.

“For now,” George says, “books at the warehouses are still shipping. It’s the summer releases and reprints we have to worry about. Anything printing in China has been delayed, and it looks like the presses here have temporarily shut down now, too. They’ve made the right call, obviously, but at some point it’s going to affect our bottom line. And it’s unfortunate for the Collins book.”

The Collins book is Jack’s current project. Part memoir, part cookbook, it’s the third book Jack has worked on with Olympic bronze medalist and two-time US Open champion Camilla Collins. The tennis star’s first two books, mystery novels about a professional tennis player who solves crimes on the international championship circuit, had done well enough for their small press. The new book is a bit of a departure, scheduled to coincide with the summer Olympic games later this year.

Or, it would have coincided with the Games, which have just been postponed, which Jack points out. “So it doesn’t completely fuck with the release,” he adds. “Assuming the printer gets up and running, we can still shoot for it to drop later. Maybe during the Australian Open in January.”

George makes a noise that, after eight years of working together, Jack has learned to interpret as cautious approval. “Right, okay,” she finally says. “That’s something to consider, but it obviously changes our PR timeline. Bittle, you’ve already got stuff running on social. If we push this thing back to first quarter, what can we do to retain interest? The last thing I want is a bunch of angry letters from readers wondering where this book we promised them is.”

Eric Bittle, the publicist assigned to the Collins book, has been with Wordsmith for about eight months. He went to culinary school before embarking on a career in PR, or maybe it was the other way around. Jack doesn’t know him very well because their projects have never overlapped until now — Jack almost exclusively works on fiction, Bittle was hired to work on the company’s fledgling cookbook imprint. It’s only because Jack and Camilla already have a working relationship that he’s been assigned to the cookbook.

As Bittle begins to speak, his image replaces George’s as the most prominent on Jack’s display. He speaks quickly, like he’s already had three espressos, as he explains his ideas. “I think we can really capitalize on everyone being at home and wanting to cook,” he says, the hint of a Southern accent just barely coloring his inflection. “I asked Camilla if she’d be willing to film some cooking demos from home. She’s on board. And I’ve got some other ideas in the works.”

“Like more jam?” Alexei Mashkov, who joined the sales division last year, interrupts.

“Oh, don’t worry about my jam. I’m keeping plenty busy with that,” Bittle says with a laugh. “I’ll set a few jars aside to bring to the office once this is all over.”

“Set some aside for me, too,” George says. “We all loved the apricot.”

Jack turns back to his notes and begins scribbling hockey plays in the margins, an old habit from his college hockey days. Once Bittle and Mashkov (and now George, apparently) get going, it can take a while to get back to the topic at hand. Jack would rather spend his time at work actually working rather than engaging in idle chit chat with his co-workers. Bittle makes jam? Great! Have that conversation later, off the clock.

But while Bittle’s frequent diversions mean meetings are twice as long as they used to be, they usually lead to his best ideas. That must be why George has kept him around. George has zero qualms about letting go of employees who don’t measure up to her personal standards. Eric Bittle, for all of his apparent faults, is very good at his job _and_ at winning over almost every co-worker and client he comes into contact with.

It must have something to do with his Southern charm, and all the pies. When Bittle was hired, pies just started appearing in the break room. 

Jack tunes back in to the conversation when George starts to wrap things up. “I know these are unprecedented times,” she’s saying. “And things are uncertain. But we all have work to do. Our authors worked hard on these books, and we owe it to them to finish the job. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

Everybody signs off and Jack's home workspace is suddenly quiet again. The silence is even more noticeable without the post-meeting chit chat and activity that Jack never participates in and tries to ignore as he gets back to work. He gets up to stretch, wanders into the kitchen to refill his coffee mug, and returns to his desk. He just got a new manuscript from one of his authors, and has been looking forward to doing a first read. He takes a sip of his coffee and settles in, reveling in the silence.

*

Jack’s morning routine hasn’t really been affected by the shelter in place order. He starts each day with a five mile run around the neighborhood, keeping his distance from other early morning joggers (there aren’t many). His building’s gym is closed so he makes do with a set of dumbbells, the pull-up bar in his closet, and easy conditioning exercises: squats, crunches, pushups. The whole circuit takes about an hour and a half; when he finishes the last set of crunches he takes a quick break to drink his protein shake and catch up on the news before he hits the shower.

His commute has gone from 40 minutes to nothing, so he gets to “work” that much earlier. Without the morning conversations around the coffee maker he feels obligated to participate in, he can actually put in a hour’s worth of work before the scheduled Zoom call. At three weeks in, George has relaxed her standards a little and now daily meetings have become twice-weekly. It’s better for everyone. The 9 am calls were a conflict for Alexei, whose wife, a morning show co-anchor here in Providence, has been filming segments from their apartment. They’ve also been a problem for the parents on staff who now have to supervise their kids’ distance learning.

This is the big topic of conversation when Jack logs on to this morning’s meeting. George has just texted that she’ll be a few minutes late due to an “emergency,” and now the parents on the call are sharing quarantine home school horror stories.

Curiously, Bittle hasn’t logged on yet either, a fact Jack wonders about until his face pops up on Jack’s screen.

“Hey, y’all!” he greets the assembled team members. “Am I late?” He looks disheveled, his cowlick sticking straight up instead of gelled into place. And he’s not wearing a bow tie, or even a button down. It looks like he’s wearing an old hoodie, the top half of a college crest just barely visible in the frame. 

“Don’t worry,” Alexei says. “George is late, too.”

“Well, thank goodness for that.” Bittle brushes imaginary sweat from his brow and takes a sip of something from a coffee mug that says “Y'all means all” in rainbow script.

“You oversleep?” Larissa, the designer assigned to the project, asks. She and Bittle are friends, Jack thinks. He’s seen them leave for lunch together.

“Oh, no. It’s Sasha. She’s looking sick so I was a bit distracted.”

“Sasha?” Jack can’t help but ask.

“Ah, is Sasha girlfriend?” Alexei asks with a wink.

“Is she okay, man?” Thirdy asks.

“If you need to take care her to the doctor or something, you can skip the call,” Marty tells him. “George will understand.”

“Y’ALL.” Bittle smiles a little sheepishly. “Calm down. Sasha is my sourdough starter. No girlfriend here,” he says archly. “Lord, I didn’t mean to cause such a fuss.”

The collective sigh of relief is audible. With the misunderstanding out of the way, Bittle launches into a description of his sourdough starter woes. This is the point where Jack would tune out, but it’s actually kind of interesting.

“Now, bread is not my forté,” Bittle says, “but I have so much time on my hands these days I figured I might as well give it a shot. I —”

He’s cut off by George, who also looks a bit worse for the wear when she joins the meeting. “The warehouse is closed until further notice and Elizabeth Maple had major technological issues during her remote appearance on the _Today Show_ to promote her book this morning,” she announces without preamble. “Please, somebody give me some good news.”

George’s mood effectively brings everyone else down, and the upbeat conversation abruptly shifts into the down-to-business tone that accompanies damage control. It’s all hands on deck, George tells them. They can’t do much about the warehouse closure, but they _can_ mitigate the PR disaster.

Which isn’t really a disaster, Jack thinks, just George being a little overdramatic. But Bittle, who apparently used to run a successful vlog from his college dorm room, offers to do some technology coaching with Wordsmith’s authors to avoid another such “incident.” This saves the day, and when they log off George is in a significantly better mood. Jack doesn’t say it, but he appreciates Bittle’s quick thinking. A happy George means a happier everyone.

*

Jack has always been a bit of a homebody. He spent his teenage years in a hockey, beer, and party-fueled haze. One overdose on his anti-anxiety medication — helped by whatever he’d been drinking that night — had been enough to get that lifestyle out of his system. College hockey had involved its share of kegsters, but nothing to rival the stuff they got up to in Juniors. His post-college professional life, without roommates, suits him.

But even homebodies get cabin fever. Is that what Jack’s been feeling? He likes the structure his work provides, but he becomes restless in the late afternoon and especially on the weekends, pacing his apartment and mindlessly snacking. He tries to relax and turn off his racing mind by focusing on video games or one of the many Oscar-nominated movies he never got around to seeing, but they only hold his attention for a few minutes at a time. His morning run is such a respite that he’s taken to adding a second run most evenings. It doesn’t make him feel better, not really. As soon as he gets back he falls into a spiral, trying and failing to focus on the news (he can’t keep up) or a book.

He finds _Frasier_ on Netflix and gets really into it, binging five or six episodes a night. He has vague memories of his mother watching it when he was a kid but he didn’t understand it back then. It’s pretty funny.

*

By Week 4 of sheltering in place, everybody has gotten a lot more comfortable with working from home _and_ with letting more of their personal lives seep into the virtual meetings. Marty’s son has run in for hugs after falling off the indoor mini trampoline, Thirdy’s daughters can often be heard singing songs from _Frozen_ , and Larissa’s boyfriend has wandered — pantless — into the frame on his way to the coffee maker. (“He’s a lawyer,” Larissa told everyone, “and he’s loving his new work from home dress code.”) Bittle shares frequent updates on the “health” of Sasha the sourdough starter and shows off the pies he’s been baking — gorgeous, professional looking things that make Jack’s mouth water just looking at them. He’s never been one to partake of the treats Bittle brings to the office, so the only explanation is that he’s finally gotten tired of the same three meals he makes.

Bittle’s kitchen prowess has turned out to be a boon to the company, too. Camilla Collins was able to film one cooking session for an Instagram Live session, but she has an infant daughter and a school-aged stepson and her focus is, understandably, directed toward her family right now. Bittle’s been “ghost baking” for her, making the recipes from the book and posting them on her behalf.

Jack is the first to admit the results have been impressive. He said so, once, and Bittle deflected the praise with a blithe, “Well, I should hope so. I didn’t stress bake through four years of undergrad and pastry school for nothing.”

Pastry school. That’s what Bittle had done.

“Besides,” Bittle added, “Camilla’s recipes are pretty basic, meant for any home cook. If I can’t follow them, most of our readers won’t have a prayer.”

The rest of their co-workers eventually got in on the act, and now most meetings open with progress reports and pictures of everyone’s creations. Thirdy bragged that his daughters had loved the vegan ice cream and Alexei proudly showed off the pesto pasta he’d made for his and Vanessas’ “date night.” Larissa, logging on a few minutes late one morning, announced she and her boyfriend had made some modifications to Camilla’s brownie recipe the night before and that it was “fuckin' ’swawesome.”

“We can’t put that on the Instagram,” George warned as Bittle groaned and buried his face in his hands. “That’s not the image a professional athlete — or our company — should be cultivating.”

Feeling inspired by everyone else — and maybe a little bored — Jack had pulled out the advance copy of Camilla’s book and attempted to make her family’s “favorite” chocolate chip cookies. He hadn’t had all of the ingredients and had been forced to improvise, using margarine in place of butter and dried cranberries in place of the chocolate chips. He must have done something wrong because the cookies seemed to melt into one large mass on the baking sheet. Jack’s cookie blob was edible, tasty even, but he definitely didn’t take pictures to share with his co-workers.

*

“Your father hid the last puzzle piece and I spent an hour crawling around the floor like a crazy person before he gave it to me.”

Jack’s mother is recounting the latest episode of the Zimmermann Self-Isolation Saga, which is how he’s come to think of his parents’ frequent calls.

“I was just having fun,” his father says, his words drowned out by a high pitched whine.

“Mute yourself!” Jack and Alicia both yell.

“Or at least share a device,” Jack says. “You don’t need to use two when you’re in the same room.”

Bob’s feed cuts out as half of his face appears in the same frame as his wife. “Better?”

“Better,” Alicia says, patting his arm. “Anyway, we finished the puzzle so I can send it to you if you want.”

“Please don’t go out just to mail me a puzzle,” Jack says. “Don’t go out at all. I can order my own puzzle.” Trying to keep his parents inside their house when they live in an entirely different country is one of the things keeping Jack awake at night. Last week, his father nonchalantly told him he’d been jumping the fence of a local park to skate on the frozen pond.

“Papa, you’re seventy,” Jack said. “You shouldn’t be out at all. You definitely shouldn’t be going to a closed park so you can jump a fence and skate. What if you get hurt?”

“That’s what I said,” Alicia said. “His back—”

“Is fine,” Bob interrupted. “I’m being careful.”

“You have a home gym,” Jack reminded him. “Just run on the treadmill or something.”

“But that’s not fun,” Bob protested.

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” Jack snapped, feeling like the parent in this situation. “Nobody is having fun right now.”

Jack doesn’t think he won that argument — his mother told him his father went on “a very long walk” the next day — but at least he got his parents to start using a grocery delivery service he found in their area. He considers that a small win.

“Are you keeping busy?” Alicia asks now. “Taking time to learn anything new or pick up a hobby?”

“I made cookies the other day.” Jack does not tell his parents it was technically for work, or that they didn’t turn out.

“Jack, that’s great!” His mother sounds just like she did when he’d been a kid and shown her one of his Lego creations.

“Yeah, they tasted good. I might try again after I get my next grocery delivery.”

“Keep us posted,” Bob says. “Never thought you’d be one to get into baking, but I guess this crisis is bringing out new things in all of us.”

“Like breaking and entering,” Alicia mutters under her breath, and she and Jack crack up.

“What was that?” Bob asks. “I didn’t hear that, did you mute yourself?”

Jack smiles in spite of himself.

*

Jack and Bittle are the first to log on to the Friday morning meeting. They stare at each other in awkward silence (at least it feels awkward to Jack) for a few minutes until Bittle scrunches up his face and squints and asks “Is that a _Tim Horton’s_ hoodie?”

Jack glances down at himself. He’d thrown on the hoodie, borrowed from his father when he was in Montreal for Christmas and never returned, after coming in from his run. He’d made his shake and settled down with Derek Nurse’s new manuscript instead of showering, intending to get some work done, and gotten so absorbed in the story he didn’t have time to shower before the meeting.

“A _Timmy’s_ hoodie in Dunks country?” Bittle scoffs, incredulous.

“Euh … it’s my dad’s,” Jack explains. He does not explain that his father was a Tim Horton’s spokesperson in the nineties, and every year or so a shipment of merchandise just randomly shows up on his parents’ doorstep.

“Oh, Canada. That’s where you’re from, right? That makes sense.”

“And you’re from … Georgia?”

“We have Waffle House.” Bittle grins. “But nothing beats my MooMaw’s pecan pie.” Bittle’s voice goes all warm and Southern when he says “pecan.”

“I've never been to a Waffle House.”

“It's a very Southern thing,” Bittle says. For a second Jack expects Bittle to go into an hour-long explanation of the importance of the Waffle House in Southern culture, but all he says is, “I'll make you a pecan pie. Later, I mean. When this is all over.”

“Oh. Sure. That would be ... nice.” 

Bittle beams like he knows he’s finally won this battle of wills. Jack’s willpower isn't strong enough to compete with the lure of something new, something novel, after weeks of his own cooking.

The meeting was supposed to begin ten minutes ago, and still no sign of any other attendees. Jack stares at Bittle staring at him.

“Did the meeting get cancelled, do you think?” Bittle finally asks.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t get a message, did you?” Jack checks his phone for a missed text, then realizes he never logged into his email at the same time Bittle says, “Oh, she sent an email. Meeting’s cancelled, rescheduled for Monday. George had another call come up.”

“Oh. I guess I’ll see you Monday then,” Jack says, ready to get back to his manuscript.

“Wait!” Bittle says, looking a little flustered. “Before you go, can I ask you something?”

Jack figures it’ll be a question about Camilla’s rescheduled book launch, or maybe something work-related he’s too embarrassed to ask in front of the entire team. He’s not expecting what comes next.

“This is probably gonna sound silly, but a few days ago you mentioned you’ve been working out at home? I was wondering if you can help me come up with some sort of routine I can do in my apartment. I kinda fell out of training when I graduated and college hockey ended. I was going to some group fitness classes at my gym but I don’t have the equipment here at home. And with the way I bake I need to do something, or I won’t be able to see my abs by the time this is all over,” Bittle says self-deprecatingly.

Bittle played in college? How has that never come up before? Actually, Jack admonishes himself, it would never have come up because he’s barely taken the time to get to know Bittle in the eight months they’ve worked together, always finding an excuse to leave the break room when Bittle comes in with a plate of treats or otherwise tries to engage him in conversation.

“You played in college?” Jack asks.

“Oh, yeah.” Bittle raises an eyebrow. “Captain my senior year.”

“Me too,” Jack says, impressed. Bittle isn't the biggest guy, and nothing about him has ever suggested he might be athletic. 

“Small world! Where’d you go?”

“Brown.”

Bittle laughs. “I think the world just got even smaller. I went to Samwell. We were practically neighbors!”

They figure out that while their time in college didn’t overlap, some of Jack’s younger teammates must have played against Bittle’s team at some point. Jack probably even attended a game or two against Samwell when Bittle was playing, he mentions now.

“I’ll be honest, if you caught any games my first year or two you wouldn’t have seen much of me,” Bittle says. “It took me a little while to find my footing. I had a major checking issue and it affected my performance.”

“How’d you work through it?” Jack asks, unable to tamp down his curiosity. Bittle’s somehow managed to hit upon the one topic he’ll gladly talk about all day.

“Lots of hard work,” Bittle replies. “I was fortunate to have a good therapist on campus, and friends who wouldn’t let me quit.”

Before Jack realizes it, he and Bittle have been talking hockey for a half hour and … he’s actually been enjoying himself. They’ve shared stories about good games and disappointing ones, team traditions, pranks and hazing rituals. Samwell sounds like a more accepting, inclusive environment then either the NHL or Jack’s college team, and he wonders what might have happened with his career if he’d decided to go there instead.

“Would you believe I showed up to our first team meeting with a bunch of pies I spent all night baking in the student kitchen?” Bittle asks.

“Yes.” Jack may be just getting to know Bittle, but this detail isn’t surprising in the least.

“Which I guess brings me back to the reason I wanted to talk. I have a way of getting off topic,” Bittle apologizes.

“I noticed.”

“Ha ha,” Bittle says, taking Jack’s deadpan delivery for what it is: a chirp. “We were talking home workouts?”

“Right. Euh … do you have any sort of equipment at home? Dumbbells or resistance bands?”

“I have a cast iron skillet!” Bittle says brightly. Jack’s pretty sure he’s joking. “Nah, I think I have some resistance bands around somewhere. I’ll look for them.”

“Cool. I’ll write up a list to get you started. Maybe we can go over it tomorrow?”

“That sounds great, Jack! This is just what I’ve needed. I’m so grateful I can afford my own place, but I sure miss having roommates sometimes. They were good for accountability. And taking all the extra baked goods off my hands.”

“Are you sheltering in place alone, Bittle?” Jack asks, suddenly sympathetic. Most of their co-workers live with partners or families. He had assumed he was the only one doing this alone.

Bittle sighs — a little sadly, Jack thinks. “Just me,” he confirms. “All by my lonesome.”

“I live alone, too. I’m pretty used to it but it does get lonely sometimes,” Jack admits. Sometimes, when his parents send him pictures taken of their various sheltering in place actives, he feels a pang of something he can’t quite name. Not jealously exactly. It’s just … something. He’s always been in awe of the ease his parents have with each other, and that they can find things to laugh about together even in times like this (even when his father is sneaking out and practically giving his mother a heart attack) makes Jack grateful they have each other.

“Well, maybe we can meet up again like this again. It’ll help me stay accountable to whatever torture you come up with for me.”

“It won’t be that bad, Bittle.”

“Knowing you, it’ll probably be worse,” Bittle chirps. In the background, Jack hears a faint buzzing. “Oh! That’ll be Betsy.”

“Betsy?”

“My oven. I’m making macarons and they’re very finicky; if I don’t take them out right away …”

Jack laughs in spite of himself. “Go. I’ll send that workout over.”

“Thanks, Jack!” Bittle’s voice sounds distant, like he’s already on his way to the kitchen. 

“See you later, Bittle. I'll check in with you tomorrow.”

“Great! I'm looking forward to it.” 

And the thing is, Jack's looking forward to it, too.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite all the politicians and CEOs and news anchors repeating “These are no ordinary times,” things feel remarkably ordinary weeks into sheltering in place. A sort of low-key anxiety has settled over everything, coloring everything Jack does, but that feeling has become part of the new normal.

There’s a disconnect between the tragedy he sees on the news and his own quiet life, yet he finds himself cycling through a range of emotions every day: Grief for those who are sick or who have lost loved ones; anger that things he was looking forward to have been put on hold indefinitely; anger more specifically directed at a government that could have prevented — or at least mitigated — this disaster; gratitude that his parents and friends are healthy; annoyance that one of his authors is two weeks overdue on the first draft of her manuscript (even though he knows not everybody is in a position to be productive right now, and there are certainly some days he doesn’t feel like being productive); relief that despite having to find new ways to accomplish some essential tasks, very little about his personal situation has changed. He’s still employed, still has a roof over his head. He can pay his bills.

Since that conversation with Bittle during last week’s staff meeting that wasn’t, they’ve been talking quite a bit considering they barely interacted for the better part of a year. Proofreading Bittle’s posts to the company social media accounts doesn’t quite fall under the scope of Jack’s responsibilities, but he understands why Bittle would want a second set of eyes before he hits the post button. He understands, less, why Bittle keeps sending him in-progress pictures of the recipes he’s testing for another upcoming title —but suddenly he’s very invested in the mystery of why a cooking show winner’s signature chocolate cake won’t rise.

“I just don’t get it,” he grouses to Jack over FaceTime one afternoon. “I’ve gone over the recipe a dozen times and it looks right. It’s really just a basic chocolate cake.” Bittle’s kitchen, with its cheery yellow walls and scuffed wood floor, is beginning to feel as familiar as Jack’s own. Depending on Bittle’s camera angle, Jack might catch a glimpse of his rabbit salt and pepper shakers or red stand mixer. This window into somebody else’s world is nice, a welcome respite from Jack’s own all-too-familiar surroundings.

“Maybe it’s your oven,” Jack suggests. Bittle’s appliances look older than the ones in Jack’s kitchen.

“It’s not my oven,” Bittle reassures him. “Betsy is a little finicky, but she’s an old workhorse and she would never betray me. My pies have been turning out fine.”

“I could see if it works for me,” Jack suggests. It’s probably a stupid idea, he can’t even get chocolate chip cookies to come out right, but …

“Have you ever baked a cake?” Bittle asks skeptically.

“Doesn’t that make me the best person to test the recipe?”

“I guess you could try,” Bittle muses, his tone absent its usual confidence and enthusiasm. “Do you even have the ingredients?”

“I needed to go to the store anyway.”

That’s how Jack finds himself in the grocery store at 2 p.m. on a Thursday wearing a mask he made out of an old t-shirt and holding a list provided by Bittle. In reality it’s only been about three weeks since his last trip to the store — he’s been paying a bit extra to have his groceries delivered — but it feels like it’s been three years. This store has always had a slightly otherworldly feel, with exposed concrete floors and sparse overhead lighting. Jack has always wondered if the aesthetic is intentional, or if the company ran out of money mid-remodel and decided this was good enough. Now its atmosphere is even more unsettling; shoppers give each other wide berths as they roll their carts past each other, looking straight ahead as if even silent eye contact will spread the virus. He takes note of the empty shelves as he walks up and down the aisles, hoping he’ll be able to find everything on Bittle’s list.

Some of the items are familiar. Flour is a staple and he even has half a bag at home, but he grabs a fresh one anyway just in case. It’s not the brand Bittle recommended, but it’s the only one on the shelf. On the other hand, he would never have expected to see espresso powder on the list. He didn’t even know that was a thing. He eventually tracks everything down, and throws some inexpensive metal cake pans into his basket for good measure.

“Baking?” the cashier asks as she scans Jack’s items. Her voice is slightly muffled behind her own mask. “Seems like everybody’s baking these days.”

“Euh … it’s for work.”

“That’s a new one. Sounds like a fun job, if they’re paying you to bake.”

Bittle would probably know how to respond to that, would tell her about the books their company publishes or show her the Instagram or something, but Jack just grunts out a “Yeah, it’s pretty fun,” and holds his phone up to the scanner to pay.

“Good luck,” the cashier says as Jacks pockets his phone and hefts his bags. Jack is certain he’ll need it.

It’s evening before Jack and Bittle are able to coordinate their schedules for Jack’s first ever online baking class. Jack sets his laptop up on the kitchen table to face the counter, where he’s lined up all of his ingredients.

“I’ve never actually done this in real time,” Bittle confesses when they connect via FaceTime. “Back when I was vlogging I could edit out all the mistakes and awkward bits.”

“How would you start this if you were doing your vlog?”

Bittle grins and waves exaggeratedly at Jack. “Hey, y’all! Bet you’ve been wondering where I’ve been. Well, I’ve been the same place you’ve been — _at_ _home_!”

Jack huffs out a laugh. “That was pretty good for on the fly.”

Bittle rolls his eyes. “Lots of practice. I’m not exaggerating when I say I spent more time doing this in college than studying. I thought I was gonna be a YouTube star.”

“How’d that work out for you?” Jack can’t help but chirp.

“Rude. Obviously the YouTube thing didn’t work out, but I do use social media for my job, unlike French or physics.”

“That’s fair. Um, can you see my counter? I think I remembered everything.”

“Can you just scoot over a little? You’re kind of blocking the counter. Yeah, there you go,” Bittle says when Jack moves out of his camera’s view. “Looks good, Jack. I think we’re ready.”

Jack thinks he probably could follow the recipe on his own, but it’s nice to have Bittle there to guide him through the process as he measures dry ingredients into one bowl and wet ingredients into another. There’s a soothing, meditative quality to the process that has him wondering why he’s never tried this before. He gets so caught up in executing each step perfectly that it takes him a second to realize Bittle is addressing him.

“Jack, I can’t see what you’re doing. You’re blocking the camera again. All I can see is your big—”

Jack turns to face the camera. “My big—?”

“Your big… You know what, how do you expect me to make sure you’re doing it right if I can’t see around you?” Bittle sputters. “Have you combined the dry and wet ingredients?”

“So you _were_ looking at my ass.”

“I wasn’t _trying_ to look,” Bittle protests, cheeks flaring red.

“Hey,” Jack says, wiping his hands on a clean towel and moving the computer so it captures his prep space from a better angle, “it’s fine. According to my old teammates, it’s hard to miss.”

“It’s like you were made to play hockey,” Bittle says, sounding more at ease now that Jack has acknowledged the elephant — or ass, as it may be — in the room.

“That’s what they used to say, back in the day,” Jack quips.

“Some of us weren’t quite as blessed. Had to scrape by on our charm and persistence.”

“Didn’t you guys win the Frozen Four?” Bittle mentioning he’d played for Samwell had tripped a switch in Jack’s memory, and after they talked hockey for the first time he spent an evening doing a little bit of research and watching footage from old Samwell games. Bittle was good. He was fast, made clean passes. His playing style complemented Jack’s own, and he wondered what it would have been like to play with Bittle on his line. He found himself wondering if Bittle might want to meet up to pass the puck around once the rink reopens. _If_ it ever reopens.

“It was a team effort,” Bittle says modestly, but his cheeks are still pink. “Stop trying to distract me by talking hockey! How’s that batter looking?”

“Oh, right. You said add the wet ingredients to the dry?”

“It’s easier if you add the dry to the wet. Then you need to mix it all together. Do you have a hand mixer? You really don’t need one, but it’s faster.”

“I have —” Jack picks up a wooden spoon.

“That’s perfect. It’ll require a little extra elbow grease but I think you’re good for it. Now just stir it all together until it’s smooth.”

The whole process, from the moment they log on to the chat to the moment Jack slides the cake pans into the oven, only takes about 20 minutes, and that’s only due to chirping-related delays. Jack can see how somebody like Bittle would be able to pull a cake like this together in just a few minutes.

“So now we just … wait?” Jack asks.

“It would be a good time to make the frosting,” Bittle suggests.

Jack had balked, a little, when Bittle informed him he would be making the frosting from scratch but as the butter ( _not_ margarine, Bittle had scolded when Jack had asked why he couldn’t just use what he already had), powdered sugar, milk, and cocoa powder come together in his mixing bowl, he has to agree with Bittle that from scratch is the way to go. It takes a little longer than it should since Jack has to mix it by hand, but it’s a decent workout and Bittle’s stories are entertaining. By the time the oven timer goes off, Jack is surprised that, once again, they’ve spent more than a half hour just talking.

“Ready?” Jack asks, silencing the timer.

“I am waiting with bated breath.”

When Jack pulls the perfectly risen chocolate cake out of the oven, they both exhale in relief. Jack can’t help but laugh a little at their synchronicity, which sets Bittle off too.

“Does it look right?” Jack asks, skeptical. It looks and smells like chocolate cake to him, but Bittle has a better eye for these things. At least it’s not flat like his cookies.

“It looks perfect,” Bittle praises. “Delicious. Of course, you have to let it cool and frost it first.”

“I can’t just eat it like this?”

“Jack Zimmermann, we did not go through all this just to make half a cake,” Bittle says in mock exasperation. “If you’re gonna be my student, you’re gonna finish the assignment. Yes, you have to frost it.”

“But it has to cool.”

“Unless you like melted chocolate frosting, yes. Do you think you can handle that part, or do you need me to walk you through that, too?”

Jack kind of wouldn’t mind Bittle walking him through it — this is the most social interaction he’s had in weeks, and it feels really good. Bittle is easy to talk to. But he’s also keenly aware that he’s already taken up way too much of Bittle’s time today. He’d mentioned needing to call his parents and wanting to do the workout Jack made for him. “Euh, I can figure it out. I’ll just text a picture or something when it’s finished.”

“Make sure it’s _completely_ cool,” Bittle warns before they log off. “I’ve got a tutorial up on my old YouTube channel if you want to watch it.”

Jack watches the frosting tutorial as he frosts the cake, stopping and starting the video several times as he works. It’s an old video, probably shot when Bittle was still in college, based on the date it was uploaded. Bittle is noticeably younger, the sides of his hair freshly shaved in the style that was popular at the time and his accent just a tad thicker, but he already has the poise and presence Jack recognizes from all the times he’s presented at staff meetings. The video is half tutorial, half Bittle rambling to his viewers about his hockey team’s playoff run, homework he’s avoiding, and his latest crush.

As he watches Bittle carefully apply something called a “crumb coat” and gently chirp somebody off camera, Jack has the sudden and distracting thought that if he and Bittle _had_ been on the same team in college, he would have had a crush on him.

Jack loses his grip on the butter knife he’s using to spread the frosting and winces at the dull ring that reverberates through the kitchen as it bounces off the counter and slides across the floor. “ _Crisse_ ,” he mutters, getting down on his knees to retrieve the knife and wipe the frosting off the tile.

His cake doesn’t look nearly as professional as the one Bittle shows off at the end, but it looks edible. Bittle had used some sort of flat spreader to smooth out the sides and a piping bag with a fancy tip to pipe a scalloped border around the edges. Jack makes do with his butter knife, going over the sides and top of the cake until the surfaces are mostly smooth.

He spends way too much time setting the cake up for a photo shoot, arranging it just so and testing different lighting scenarios before getting a shot he’s proud to share with Bittle. The simple “ _You did it_! 😃” he receives in response shouldn’t make him feel like he’s just scored in overtime, but that’s the thing about this new normal: Even the simple things feel extraordinary.

*

Though pleased with his cake, Jack hopes to fly under the radar during Friday’s work “show and tell.” Unfortunately, it’s hard to fly under the radar with the town crier, aka Eric Bittle, present. “Jack baked!” he announces just as George is ready to move on to actual business.

“Jack _Zimmermann_?” George asks, speaking for everyone.

Jack can’t really tell, but he can kind of tell, that all eyes are on him. “Euh … I was just helping Bittle out. It was for work.”

“Don’t be modest, Jack! Y’all, he did great. And it helped me figure out I need to call my landlord about recalibrating my oven because that cake was not rising for me. I only wish we could all have a slice.”

“It’s good,” Jack says. Three-quarters of the cake is still sitting on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t really thought through the implications of what he’d do with an entire cake when he’d agreed to help Bittle out.

“Should bring by our apartment, share a little,” Mashkov implores. “Vanessa cannot cook.”

“Alexei Mashkov, that’s a terrible thing to say about your bride!” Bittle scolds as Marty shakes his head and mutters, “That’s cold, man.”

“Is okay. We order takeout most nights. Support local economy.”

“Dude, just bake the cake yourself,” Larissa says, speaking for the first time this morning. “If Jack can do it without screwing it up too much, anybody can.”

“Y’all are terrible,” Bittle says over the entire team’s laughter. “Jack, you did great. I had faith in you all along.”

Ordinarily the laughter and chirping, good natured though it may be, would chafe a little. But Bittle’s sweet praise takes the sting out and leaves Jack pleasantly warm. It’s a feeling he could get used to.

*

As an only child, Jack carries the weight of his parents’ affection by himself. It’s not an unpleasant burden. It’s just there, something he forgets about until they do something like send him a care package stuffed with Canadian snack foods and puzzles and an extremely soft hoodie that still has the $150 price tag attached. If there’s a happy medium between “free logo merch from the Tim Horton’s people” and high end athleisure, Bob and Alicia Zimmermann haven’t found it.

The puzzle is a common enough depiction of a sunny French street filled with flower stalls, an outdoor café, and a bakery. His eye is immediately drawn to the croissants and baguettes visible in the bakery’s window;they make him think of Bittle and his sourdough baking experiments.

Before he can stop himself he’s typing out a text. “ _FaceTime?_ ” He glances at the clock. It’s after four; Bittle probably isn’t working right now.

Bittle’s reply is slow to come. “ _Ten minutes?_ ”

Jack takes the time to send a quick text to his parents thanking them for the package. Then he puts the chips and candy in the kitchen cupboards and folds the hoodie up and takes it into his bedroom. He’s just set the puzzle on the coffee table when his phone, still in the kitchen, alerts him to an incoming FaceTime call. “Hey,” he greets Bittle as his face fills Jack’s phone screen.

“You didn’t tell me I wouldn’t be able to walk after that workout,” Bittle admonishes, twisting his face into a grimace. He’s flushed and slightly out of breath in an Under Armour shirt that clings to his upper body. “Good thing the only place I was planning to go for the rest of the night is my couch.”

Jack laughs. The most recent workout he sent Eric was a full-body workout, and even Jack is feeling it today. “Too many squats for you, Bittle?” he chirps.

“Squats and dead lifts and planks … oh my.” Bittle’s smile is wry. “That’s what I get for slacking after college and just focusing on cardio. No more! This is the dawn of a new era: Bittle’s Better Booty 2.0.”

Jack wants to say that he remembers version 1.0, in those skinny khakis Bittle used to wear to work, and he doesn’t think it needs improvement. But that would be … weird. That would be a weird thing to say to a co-worker. Even if it’s relevant to the conversation at hand. “You should eat more protein,” is what he settles on instead, realizing too late that this also sounds weird. “To balance out all the sugar, eh?”

“Oh, stop,” Bittle says lightly. “I didn’t hear you complaining about that chocolate cake. Anyway, I’m giving most of it away. One of my neighbors works at the hospital; I’ve been dropping stuff off on her doorstep and she’s been taking it in for everyone who works there.”

“That’s really nice.”

“I’m a nice person,” Bittle says primly. “I can drop something off at your place sometime, if you want. I promise I’m healthy. At least, I think I am. I haven’t gone anywhere in weeks because I’m getting all of my groceries and baking supplies delivered. And I wear a mask when I’m in the kitchen preparing stuff for others, just in case.”

“I think you’re fine,” Jack reassures him, “but I wouldn’t want you to go to the trouble.”

“It’s not! I’m taking some jam over to Alexei and Vanessa tomorrow; I can swing by your place too. It’ll be good for me to get out. I’ve been taking walks around the block for fresh air but a longer trip will do me some good.”

“If it’s not too much trouble …”

“It’s never too much trouble! You’ll be doing _me_ a favor. Besides, you haven’t tried my maple apple pie. It’ll change your life.”

“Well, if it will change my life …”

“I don’t lie about pie,” Bittle says, deadly serious. “So what did you want to talk about? You didn’t find a typo in that Instagram post I made earlier, did you?”

“No, it’s not work-related,” Jack says. “I just, ah, wanted to know how your sourdough starter is doing. Sabrina? You haven’t mentioned her in a while.

“Jack Zimmermann, are you chirping me? Sasha’s doing better; I think she’s gonna make it. We’ll see. I’m gonna try a loaf on Saturday.”

“I’m pulling for her,” Jack says. “Uh, I called because I thought maybe you can teach me? Since the cake went so well. It would be nice to be able to make my own bread. It’s more practical than cake.”

Bittle’s expression softens. “Of course I can, but you know it’s not an immediate thing, right? Sourdough is a process, it takes a little time. You can’t rush it. If you just want a nice loaf of sandwich bread, I can help you with that. But if you have the patience, I promise the sourdough is worth the wait.”

“Maybe we can try both,” Jack suggests. “A regular loaf for now, and sourdough for later.”

“Or,” Bittle says contemplatively, “I can share Sasha with you.”

“Can you do that?” Jack asks. “How would that work?”

“Starters are made to be shared,” Bittle says blithely. “I’ll bring her over tomorrow with the pie.”

Later that night, Jack sits on his couch munching on All Dressed chips while reading up on sourdough starters. He starts with very dry and scientific accounts of how the process works and moves on to historical accounts of miners carrying their starters with them during the California Gold Rush. These somehow lead him to the personal essays and anecdotes, because if he’s learned anything tonight sourdough starters are very personal. He reads an essay comparing the baker/sourdough starter relationship to a tempestuous love affair. He reads about starters that have been passed down in families for decades, and a darkly funny article about the children of a deceased woman going to court over “custody” of her starter. He learns that sharing a starter is a sign of trust. Love, even. He copies the links to the stories about the love affair and the court case and sends them to Bittle.

“ _I promise not to take you to court_ ,” Bittle replies later that night as Jack is getting ready for bed. “ _But you better treat her right_.”

“ _Thank you for trusting me with Sasha_ ,” Jack texts back. “ _I think this is the *start* of something special_.”

They’ve only been friends for a few weeks, but Jack can imagine Bittle’s exasperation-tinged giggle at his terrible pun as he awaits the reply that finally comes: “ _Me too_.”

Maybe this sudden friendship with Bittle is an excuse, a reason to connect with somebody in these lonely times. But accelerated though it may be, it feels real and solid, like something that could last beyond these strange times.

*

It’s warming up outside and Jack has never encountered so many runners, walkers, and cyclists during his daily runs. On Tuesday he turns a corner into an alley and does a double take when he sees somebody walking a cat on a leash, a sight that pulls an unexpected laugh out of him. He makes a mental note to tell Bittle about it during dinner.

Hockey players tend to be a superstitious bunch, but even Jack’s college teammates used to chirp him for taking his routines too far. Sticking to a routine has always soothed him and kept him moving forward, even when the walls start to close in around him. Now this habit does more than help keep the anxiety at bay; it helps him keep track of these endless days that melt into each other.

Talking to Bittle every evening has become part of the routine. Jack tells himself it’s just because he needs to give Bittle his daily update on Sasha II, but it’s so much more than that. The updates have stretched into the dinner hour, and now dinner together is part of the routine too.

“Oh my goodness you did not!” Bittle cries when Jack opens their nightly call with the story about the cat.

“I swear,” Jack insists. “This woman was leading the cat around on a leash.”

“Did the cat … like it?”

“It didn’t seem to mind.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. Take a picture next time,” Bittle orders.

“I’m not going to take a picture.”

“I would.”

“I know _you_ would. You’d take a picture and put it on your Instawhatever.” Jack has fallen into the habit of checking Instagram just to see what has caught Bittle’s attention each day. He’s been keeping track of his squat workouts (sometimes there’s video) and participating in some sort of “Quarantimes Challenge” that has him sharing pictures of the view outside his window and his Netflix queue.

“It’s called Instagram Story, and there’s nothing wrong with capturing a little neighborhood flavor. We all need something to make us smile right now. It’s the little things, Jack. How’s Sasha II?”

“Good. She’s good. Bubbly?” Jack walks his phone over to the counter, where Sasha II sits in a glass jar. “Look,” he says, flipping the camera so Bittle can see for himself.

“The bubbles mean she’s healthy. If she stops bubbling, you may have to feed her more often. But it looks like you’ll be ready to bake with her soon.”

“What are you doing right now?” Jack asks, pulling a tub of protein powder down from the top of the fridge.

“Eating tacos on my couch.” Bittle angles his phone downward so Jack can see the plate of tacos balanced in his lap. Two months ago Jack would have scoffed at the idea of prim, proper Eric Bittle in his bowtie and sweater vest eating tacos on his couch, but that was before he was introduced to the other side of Eric Bittle, the one who was a jock in college and lived in a frat house. Now this version of Bittle is familiar and expected.

Even the extraordinary is ordinary, once you get used to it.

“What are you having?” Bittle asks.

Jack opens a cupboard and pulls out a shaker cup. “Protein shake. Chocolate peanut butter.”

Bittle makes a face. “Tell me that isn’t dinner.”

“It’s dinner.”

“It’s Taco Tuesday, Jack!” Bittle cries, clearly agonized by Jack’s lack of respect for the institution. “At the very least you should be drinking a margarita.” He raises his own drink, an eye-popping chartreuse concoction in one of those oversize novelty margarita glasses with the name of a bar printed on the side. The liquid inside sloshes with his movement, a few drops splashing onto his plate.

“Whoa, bud.”

“This might —” Bittle smirks — “be margarita number two. I can neither confirm nor deny but … Hey, don’t change the subject! Why are you drinking a protein shake for dinner?”

Jack shrugs. He has chicken and a few frozen dinners in the freezer, and the cupboards aren’t completely bare. He’s got beans, rice, a couple potatoes, some slightly wilted spinach. Enough that he could pull something together if he really felt like making the effort.

“I may have some frozen burritos in the freezer,” Jack finally tells Bittle after taking his mental inventory. “And beer. And I still have a slice of pie.” He’s been rationing the maple apple pie Bittle dropped off last week, limiting himself to one slice a day to make it last. It really is that good.

“Well, I suppose that will have to do,” Bittle huffs. “Hurry up so we can eat together.”

Because it’s Taco Tuesday, Bittle insists they watch a Netflix documentary about taco trucks “together.” Jack expects Bittle to talk through it, but they’re both so engrossed that sometimes Jack forgets they’re still connected.

Afterward, Bittle wistfully comments that the different generations preparing food together in one of the taco trucks reminds him of his own family.

“Does everybody in your family cook?” Jack doesn’t know very much about Bittle’s family, only that they’re all back in Georgia.

Bittle snorts and takes another pull of his margarita. “Not hardly. The women cook, the boys play football. And then there’s me.”

“You played hockey,” Jack says, moving his plate onto the coffee table and stretching out on the couch. If he props his phone up against the stack of books on the table and lies on his side facing it, it’s at the perfect angle to see Bittle.

“I played hockey _after_ figure skating didn’t work out. My dad’s a high school football coach. It caused quite a stir when I didn’t follow in his footsteps.”

Oh boy. Jack knows that song.

“I was bullied in elementary and middle school,” Bittle says, taking the conversation in a direction Jack wasn’t expecting. “I think I thought I deserved it because those boys were right, I wasn’t like them, and the fact that I wasn’t like my daddy either made it worse. He had me play quarterback in peewee football because I was fast, but then the other parents got to whispering that Coach was playing favorites with his own kid and that made me a target. I got bullied by my own team. And then in my first game I got hit real hard and —” Bittle shrugs. “After that my parents didn’t put up such a fuss when I said I wanted to skate. By then it was clear I wasn’t my father’s son.”

Jesus. Jack had no idea. As bad as he thought he had it as the son of a hockey legend, he realizes now it could have been so much worse if his circumstances had been just a little different.

“The kitchen was always where I went when things felt really bad and — hey, do I look okay from this angle?” Bittle interrupts himself as he also changes positions. Jack smiles and nods. Bittle’s cowlick is sticking straight up but the camera hasn’t caught him at an unflattering angle. “My mama and MooMaw taught me how to bake. And yeah, I got teased when I entered my pies in the county fair competition, but I think my dad was actually proud when I won? I got lucky because all of those Food Network baking shows were popular when I was in high school. He probably saw all those straight dudes baking and figured there was still a chance I could be like them. Maybe I did too. It took me a long time to figure it out.”

“Figure out you’re … gay?” Jack recently looked up some of the articles written about Bittle after his team won the Frozen Four. As the first openly gay captain of a NCAA hockey team, he received a fair amount of attention. Jack had felt a pang of guilt as he read the interviews and commentary, painfully aware that if he’d been just a little braver when he was playing in college, he could have been the one to break that barrier.

Bittle raises an eyebrow, like he’s trying to get a read on Jack’s thoughts. “Well, yeah. You’d think I’d have figured it out by the time puberty hit and I still wasn’t interested in girls, but I didn’t even consider it until college. Like, in the back of my mind I knew for sure, but I still couldn’t name what was wrong with me. Isn’t that crazy? I guess that’s what being raised in a conservative small town will do to you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you for not figuring it out in high school,” Jack says, “and not doing it on somebody else’s timeline doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you either. It took me a while to figure out I was bi, and I was raised by pretty open parents who had lots of gay friends. I mean, the professional hockey thing didn’t help, but my sexuality was the least of my problems when it came to the hockey thing.”

“I know that now but … wait, _what_? I didn’t know that, did I?”

“Um …” The problem with Bittle being such an easy person to talk to is that Jack forgets they haven’t known each other forever, that there’s no way Bittle would know about the bi thing _or_ the professional hockey thing because Jack, by nature, is an extremely private person. “That I’m bisexual? Or was supposed to play professional hockey?”

“Yes, both of those,” Bittle says a little breathlessly. “ _How did I not know this about you_?”

“Well, you obviously never Googled me or you would have known about the professional hockey thing,” Jack says self-deprecatingly. “And I haven’t seriously dated anybody in a couple of years, since before you started working at Wordsmith.”

“I didn’t know,” Bittle says. “Is that why … One time you said the professional hockey thing didn’t work out. Is that why?” Jack takes a deep breath and Bittle must sense his hesitation because he quickly adds, “You don’t have to talk about it, I’m just being nosy.”

It’s late, Jack hasn’t talked to anybody like this in months, and Bittle is so easy to talk to. The beers he downed have left him warm and pleasantly buzzed, just enough to lower his inhibitions. He rolls onto his back. Looking at the ceiling is easier than looking directly at Bittle. “When I was 18, I was supposed to go first in the NHL draft. The night before, I intentionally overdosed on a combination of alcohol and prescription anxiety medication,” he says bluntly.

Jack hears the sharp intake of breath, then silence save for Eric’s quiet, measured breathing that reassures Jack he’s still there. Finally, Bittle says, softly, “Oh, honey.”

“Everything felt too much, and the only way to make it stop was to take more and more until that was also… too much.”

“Did it hurt?”

“The overdose?”

“The … I guess before that. Whatever it was that you wanted to stop, did it hurt?”

Jack has never thought about it in those terms before, but he gets what Bittle is getting at. “I was just a kid, and everybody had my life planned out. Everybody had these expectations and I had to be on all the time. It was like … Well, it wasn’t exactly like this, but imagine being the president’s kid. Everybody is looking at you, waiting for you to fail. There were people who wanted me to fail because they thought I had gotten where I was because of my father, that my spot should have gone to somebody more deserving. It sounds like you understand that. And there were people who wanted me to fail because I was good, and they wanted to see me get knocked down a peg or two. I was pretty cocky back then and I probably deserved it. And then there were just as many people who wanted to see me succeed and carry on the family tradition. I just wanted to play hockey, but it got hard to play through all that noise.”

“Mm,” Bittle hums, and Jack wonders if he’s lost him.

“I don’t know why I told you that,” Jack says. “I’m sorry.” He shifts his body again so he can look at Bittle.

“Don’t be,” Bittle says. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“You’re easy to talk to,” Jack says. He’s bared enough of himself tonight that this admission hardly seems significant, but Bittle’s mouth trembles and his eyes widen and Jack would swear he’s trying not to cry. “Thank _you_ for trusting me. Are your parents … you’re all good now?”

Bittle’s nod is almost imperceptible. “I’m not gonna pretend I came out to them and everything was magically fine, but they didn’t disown me. We had to learn how to communicate and meet each other where we are. My dad isn’t marching at the front of the Pride parade — Madison doesn’t even have a Pride parade — but nobody was prouder than he was when we won the Frozen Four. He still shows the video to anybody who comes over to the house. But you know what? Now he also asks to bake with me when I go home to visit.”

“That’s nice. My dad likes to bake. I think he’d like you.”

“Sounds like you and your dad are good now too?”

“It took a lot of screaming matches and therapy. I think my dad still thought I’d come back from rehab and sign with a team, but he didn’t pressure me. When he saw how much healthier I was when hockey was just a hobby, he backed off a lot.”

“Lord,” Bittle says, choking on a little sob-laugh. “Didn’t know Taco Tuesday was going to turn into therapy about our daddy issues.”

“I’m cheaper than a therapist,” Jack says, deadpan.

“Easier on the eyes, too,” Bittle says. Jack notices the moment Bittle realizes what he’s just said, the way his cheeks redden and his eyes widen in surprise before he looks away. “Or, I mean — ”

“Yes,” Jack agrees, because he’s emotionally spent, and right now it takes more effort to pretend he hasn’t been noticing Bittle, a little more every time they talk. As soon as he says it, something inside of him settles as he acknowledges how right it feels. It’s something he’ll have to deal with sooner or later, probably. Right now Jack just wants to keep talking to his friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Plans continue to get cancelled.

Rites of spring, anything that gives the passage of time some sort of meaning, are no longer things to look forward to. Industry trade shows and agent meetings are postponed. Gallery openings are put on hold. There’s no hockey playoff season. Baseball season ends before it begins.

“I was going to run a half marathon,” Bittle says a little wistfully.

“You were?” Jack asks, surprised. Bittle has never mentioned training for a race.

“Nah,” Bittle says, laughing. “But I could’ve.”

*

Jack is doing bicep curls in his living room when he gets a FaceTime request from Bittle. It’s earlier than usual, still hours before their usual dinner call. He accepts the call, ready to chirp Bittle about yesterday’s leg day, but it’s immediately clear from the crease of his brow and grim line of his mouth that he’s not in the mood for any of it.

“My mother,” Bittle says flatly, “wants me to come home to Georgia.” He says “Georgia” like it’s a particularly distasteful word, the lines in his forehead becoming more prominent. Jack has the absurd urge to reach through his phone screen and smooth them out.

“What?” Jack lowers the weight and sets it on the floor. “Why?”

“She thinks I’d be better off there with her and Coach instead of ‘cooped up all alone,’” Bittle says, making a gesture that falls somewhere between air quotes and jazz hands. “Plus, Georgia is ‘opening things up —’” more air quotes — “and I guess she thinks it’ll be easier for me to be there instead of here? Like I’ve just been itching to run out and get a tattoo.”

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Not the tattoo type, Bittle?”

“I almost got one, once,” Bittle says, surprising Jack. “Back in college after we made it to the playoffs one year. We were halfway to the tattoo parlor before I realized I’d forgotten my wallet. And my shoes, apparently. I was gonna get a pie and hockey sticks. It would’ve been so cute.”

“You still could, if you go back to Georgia,” Jack teases. “You could go to a movie too, maybe road trip to Florida for spring break. I heard the beaches are open.”

“I might as well lick a subway pole!” Bittle squawks.

Jack laughs. Chirping Bittle is part art, part science, and this particular chirp elicited the desired reaction: Bittle, flustered, torn between laughter and indignation.

“Do you know what brought this on?”

“Yeah.” Bittle sighs. “MooMaw’s birthday is coming up and Aunt Judy is throwing a big party. I was supposed to fly out for it, back before everything. Aunt Judy officially called the whole thing off when they got their stay at home orders, but I have a feeling she was always going to go through with it anyway. Now it’s officially back on. Mama wants me to fly out for the party and just stay until work reopens. Ugh,” he moans. “There are so many reasons that wouldn’t work!”

“Even if they don’t reopen the office until summer, if you go back to Georgia you’d still have to pay rent on your place here,” Jack points out.

“I told her that! And then she said I should sublet it. Like that’s even possible right now. Go home to Georgia,” he mutters under his breath. “Can you even imagine?”

“Now doesn’t seem like a good time,” Jack agrees.

“It would make more sense for them to come stay with _me;_ they’d probably be safer here, where people are _sane_ , but I can tell you _that_ is not happening either.” Bittle must have taken his phone into the kitchen and set it down because all Jack can see is the ceiling and he hears drawers and cabinets doors being opened and slammed shut. “Can you imagine the three of us cooped up in my apartment? With no place to go to distract them from their incessant questions about why I’m still single? No thank you.” This is accompanied by the slam of something metal against the countertop.

“What are you baking?” Jack asks, because it’s more appropriate than asking Bittle why he’s still single.

“What am I … Oh! I don’t even know!” Everything gets scrambled for an instant as Bittle picks up his phone and his face comes back into focus. “I must’ve gone into a fugue state and started baking. I shouldn’t. I’m almost out of butter and I couldn’t get a grocery delivery slot until the day after tomorrow.”

Jackpicks up the weight and begins a new set as Bittle continues to rant. “They’re so concerned that I’m lonely but just because I live alone doesn’t mean I’m _completely_ starved for socialization. I have you. And Lardo and Shitty and —”

“ _Who_?” Jack interrupts.

“Oh! Larissa from work?She and her and her boyfriend Shit — er, Byron — are old friends from Samwell.”

“The naked guy who lives with her?”

“That’s how we refer to him, yes,” Bittle says, laughing. “Shitty is his hockey nickname. Or, well, preferred name, really. None of us even knew his real name until he graduated. Larissa was our team manager.”

“I didn’t realize you were friends before,” Jack says.

“Larissa’s how I got my job. She heard about the opening and referred me to George.”

“Huh. That’s neat.” Every time he and Eric talk, Jack learns something new; it’s like looking at one of those patterned dot pictures that becomes something else entirely the longer you stare at it.

“I bet you’re wondering what I even have in common with a guy like Shitty, but would you believe he’s the first person I came out to? Not just at Samwell, but ever. He helped me feel comfortable on the team, too, when I was still having my checking issues.” Bittle seems more relaxed now that he’s talking about something other than his parents.

“Then he must be a good guy,” Jack says, trying to reconcile Larissa’s laid-back boyfriend with this new information.

“We’re having happy hour on Friday at four. You should join us. We’re playing Pictionary.”

“Oh. Maybe?” Jack’s lost count of how many curls he’s done on this side. He transfers the weight to his left hand. “Your parents probably just want to know you’re doing okay,” he says now that he can get a word in edgewise. “I’m sure they miss you.”

“Well, sure. I miss them too.It’s killing me that I can’t see MooMaw and give her a hug on her birthday. But I’m not gonna risk my health by getting on a plane and flying there, and then risk everyone else’s health because I just spent hours in the airport and on a plane with people who have been who-knows-where. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. That’s what Mama said, that I’m being unreasonable.”

“You’re not being unreasonable,” Jack reassures him. “You’re choosing to keep others healthy. Maybe you can still do something special for your grandma. Does she have a way to connect with you for a video call? She’d probably enjoy baking with you.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Bittle says thoughtfully. “I should’ve thought of that to begin with, I just got so worked up I couldn’t think straight.”

“It’s okay. Sometimes you just need to talk it out.”

“And you know I can talk.” Bittle smiles for the first time this call. “Thank you for indulging my tantrum. I think I just needed to vent.”

“It’s okay. Parents can be a lot. Mine are.”

“Celebrities,” Bittle says wryly, “they’re just like us.”

“Worse if they’re old hockey players who never got used to being told ‘no.’”

“I refuse to believe your father is one of the bad ones!” Bittle cries. “He can’t be, if he raised you.”

“No, not one of the bad ones,” Jack agrees. “Despite his nickname. He’s just stubborn and set in his ways. Like your mom, probably.”

“Lord help me, that woman will be the death of me. It’s not like Coach ever tells her no. That would require confrontation.” Bittle rolls his eyes. “I have to go finish up some work before dinner, but I’ll have Larissa add you to the invite list for Pictionary on Friday.”

“I’m not an artist,” Jack protests.

Bittle’s laugh is sharp. “None of us are, except Larissa. It’s mostly an excuse to day drink. It’ll be fun. Friday at four. Put it on your calendar.”

*

On Friday afternoon Jack finishes work early and, instead of doing a second workout, follows the link Bittle shared to join Larissa’s Pictionary game.

“Jack Zimmermann. Good to see you, man.” Larissa raises a glass of something pink that’s garnished with orange slices and maraschino cherries speared through with a yellow cocktail umbrella. It’s weird to see her outside of a work setting. She’s wearing a gray Samwell Men’s Hockey t-shirt like the one Bittle occasionally wears, which reminds him that she and her boyfriend — Byron, Shitty, whatever his name is — are Bittle’s best friends.

“Hey,” Jack says, raising his beer bottle.

“Jack, you made it!” Bittle calls. His laptop is set up on his kitchen table, a placement Jack is familiar with from some of their previous chats, and Jack can see him move around the kitchen as he pulls things out of cupboards and mixes his drink.

“Jack Zimmermann, you sexy motherfucker!” Larissa’s boyfriend comes into view as he takes a seat next to her. “You guys kicked our asses back in 2012. I still get turned on whenever I think about that hat trick of yours.”

“Uh … thanks?”

“Shits!” Larissa elbows him hard enough to cause his own cocktail to spill on his (bare) chest. “Don’t scare him, he’s normal.”

“Come on, Lards, he’s one of us,” Shitty protests. “Who doesn’t get turned on by good hockey?”

Larissa shrugs and says something about not dating Shitty until after he stopped playing, so clearly _she_ can’t relate, which makes everyone laugh and somehow puts Jack at ease. Bittle finally takes a seat in front of his camera with his "quarantini" — a martini he made with “all the random stuff I had in my fridge” — and a slim slice of pie. Cherry, by the looks of it. “Sorry, y’all,” he apologizes, indicating his plate. “I should’ve dropped some by your places.”

“This guy,” Shitty says admiringly, “baked so many pies in college that we had to get a new oven.”

“More like the oven was already broken, and none of y’all knew it because you only used it for Bagel Bites,” Bittle fires back. There’s an easy comfort in the way he and his friends banter back and forth but Jack doesn’t feel excluded; instead, their conversation expands to include Jack, the three friends making sure to explain inside jokes when stories about college or their mutual friends come up. Both Larissa and Shitty refer to Bittle using his hockey nickname, Bitty, which Shitty explains was derived from his last name plus the fact that “the guy was so itty bitty compared to everyone else.”

“I prefer the term ‘compact,’” Bittle corrects. “Especially now that Better Booty 2.0 is under construction.”

Jack feels loose and free enough to agree, earning a blush from Bittle; the ensuing look that passes between Larissa and Shitty is so swift he almost misses it.

Pictionary ends up being a bust — Larissa is a much better artist than any of them and has an unfair advantage, even while drunk — so Shitty digs out an old deck of Trivial Pursuit cards for an impromptu trivia night. It turns out Jack and Bittle are a formidable duo, with Jack able to easily answer most of the history and sports questions and Bittle dominating in the pop culture category. Which is not to say that Larissa and Shitty don’t put up a good fight; it’s just that Bittle’s knowledge of of 90s-era musical divas is extremely vast and ends up putting them over the top.

By the end of the evening Larissa and Shitty feel like old, familiar friends. “Don’t be a stranger,” Larissa tells Jack when they all sign off. “Come to lunch with me and Bits once we can go back to the office.”

“Gosh, do you think we’ll ever eat in a restaurant again?” Bittle asks.

Jack doesn’t have an answer for that, and neither do Larissa and Shitty. It kind of puts a damper on the end of the evening; Shitty and Larissa look at each other for a beat and Jack can almost see them communicating silently before Shitty announces he and Larissa have “plans.”

“Lord, I’ve heard enough,” Bittle says. “Time to go!”

“Relax, Bits. We’re not doing anything that would make Mama Bittle blush. He’s just doing some modeling for me. I’ve been getting back into sketching since a lot of my other supplies are backordered right now.”

“I’m her muse,” Shitty says grandly.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” Larissa retorts, “but I guess I’ll keep you.”

“’Night, boys,” Shitty says. “Be safe. Don’t stay up too late.” He and Larissa disconnect, missing Bittle’s indignant scowl.

“I swear sometimes he thinks I’m still his little frog he needs to protect,” Bittle says.

“From what?” Jack asks.

Bittle shrugs. “You name it. I guess I did bring it on myself, what with all the fainting on the ice I did that first year. And then the concussion. And then there were all my terrible dates. Did I tell you about the time my Winter Screw date threw up on my shoes? A real winner, that one.” His eyes widen. “Oh, wait, you don’t think he thinks … We’re not … Larissa couldn’t have told him that …” He stops himself before he finishes his thought.

“Told him what?” Jack asks, feeling like he’s missed something.

“Nothing! It’s nothing, I’m just thinking out loud like always. I had fun tonight. Thanks for joining us.”

“I had fun, too,” Jack says sincerely. “You wanna watch something? It’s still early.”

“Nah, um —” Bittle turns away from the camera so all Jack can see is his profile — “I just remembered I have something I need to do for work. I was waiting on an email and it’s here now so I should get that done. Rain check?”

“Rain check,” Jack agrees, wondering what on earth he could have done to make Bittle pull away so quickly.

*

Jack finally gives in to Bittle’s pleas and makes an Instagram account. He takes pictures of his quiet neighborhood during his morning runs. The doughnut shop he run past every morning is still open for takeout orders. In the early hour it’s not yet open for business but the lights are on and he can see a lone employee stocking the bakery cases. He stands across the street and photographs it in the early morning light. Later in the week, he runs by an empty playground; the climbing equipment is blocked off with caution tape. Somebody has hung a blue, dirt-stained toddler-sized hoodie on the fence. He takes a picture of that, too.

At first he thinks Bittle and his parents are the only ones looking at his pictures, so he’s surprised when he gets a new follower notice from Larissa. “Cool snaps, bro,” she comments. He looks at her account and discovers she’s part of an artist collective that’s been painting murals on boarded up businesses throughout town. He makes an effort to find some on his next run and photographs those as well. He gets a notification that Larissa shared one of his mural photographs on her story and his follower count explodes.

“I don’t get it,” he tells Bittle after somebody from Falconers PR shares his photo of a Falconers billboard standing sentry over an empty road that would ordinarily be congested with commuter traffic. “They’re just pictures from my run. Why do people like them?”

“Because they’re real,” Bittle says.

*

“Do you think we’re having too much fun?” George asks Jack during one of their frequent one-on-one sessions. Jack doesn’t need to ask her to explain. Staff meetings — real meetings, not these virtual meetings — were never so loose and chaotic. During one of last week’s meetings Mashkov accidentally changed his settings and turned himself into a potato, which had led to everyone experimenting with different filters and backgrounds for the duration. They hadn’t managed to discuss any business that day.

“I think people need to blow off steam.”

George doesn’t say anything.

“But if you think things are getting too casual, you can put a stop to it.”

“It’s not all fun and games, you know.” George sighs. “We were doing fine before all of this happened, but just barely. Don’t tell anybody, but I’ve been approached about selling.”

“You’ve been approached before,” Jack points out.

“This time I’m thinking of taking the deal. You know Prologue has been after us for a while.”

“Do _they_ have the money right now?”

George snorts. “When _don’t_ they have money. It would be just like them to strike when we’re down.”

She’s right. Prologue is a vanity project, the publishing arm of a billionaire entrepreneur’s multimedia empire. The whole world could burn and Prologue would still be here.

“They want our authors,” Jack says, remembering a deal that went to auction three years ago. Wordsmith had edged Prologue out, just barely. If the rumor Jack heard at an industry dinner late last year is true, Prologue is interested in poaching Camilla Collins once her contract with Wordsmith is fulfilled. “That’s one way to get Collins and Nurse on their roster.”

“They told me it would be a controlling interest. We’d retain oversight of our titles and authors and we’d still be able to make our own acquisitions, as long as they don’t compete with the parent company’s interests.”

“That’s good,” Jack allows.

“We’d probably have to let go of some of our people. Your job would be safe, probably. But in past acquisitions they’ve eliminated redundancies. They’d want to kill our sales team, maybe marketing.”

Bittle.

Jack has been George’s sounding board for as long as he’s been with the company. He was one of her first hires when she realized her company had become too successful to handle everything on her own, and she’s come to treat him as both second in command and confidante. Jack knows more insider industry gossip than he probably should. He also knows more about George’s IVF treatments than he probably should.

That’s whyhe’s not surprised when he finds himself confessing, “I like Bittle.” As he says it, all the fleeting feelings and thoughts he’s had these past weeks fall into place, and he realizes it’s true. He likes Bittle.

George is silent for a very long time until, finally, she sighs and says, “I want to believe you mean like like Bittle as a colleague, but I’m not stupid.”

What’s that supposed to mean? And suddenly, Jack remembers the thing that’s been nagging him about the way he and Bittle parted after Pictionary with Larissa and Shitty. Bittle wasn’t distracted by work, Jack realizes, he was distracted by … what? He’d almost made it sound like Shitty and Larissa thought they were a couple. Which isn’t true, obviously. But if Shitty and Larissa thought something was going on, then maybe everyone they know has picked up on it.

It’s not true and yet, as Jack sits here contemplating how to respond to George, he realizes how much he wants it to be true.

“We don’t have a formal policy about interoffice relationships,” she continues. “We’ve never needed one. If these were normal circumstances I would advise against it. But these aren’t normal circumstances, so I guess all I can say is I don’t want to know the details. Is that fair?”

“It’s not even a relationship,” Jack clarifies. “I just … I like him.”

“At this point I don’t even know if it would be easier to keep him or let him go,” George says, more to herself than Jack. “This is why you can’t tell me these things, Zimmermann. I’m your boss. How can you expect me to make objective decisions for the good of the team when I know two members of said team are hooking up?”

“We’re not?” Jack says, now thoroughly confused. “We’re just … talking. We haven’t even been in the same room since February.”

“I don’t want to know!” George repeats, and Jack knows that if he could see her she’d have her face in her hands.

“It’s probably nothing,” Jack says, mostly to reassure her. “And you’re not going to sell.”

“I am. I’ll take the money and quit. Stay at home and be Susan’s trophy wife.”

Jack snorts. He can’t imagine George without her work. She’d get bored within a week and overthrow the PTA president just to have something to run. “You won’t sell. You’ll to pretend to consider it, they’ll come back with a bigger number, and you’ll to tell them to fuck off like you always do. And I’m not,” he adds, “dating Bittle.”

“I know you’re trying to make this better,” George says carefully, “but you know only one of those things is true.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jack spends the rest of the evening turning George’s words over in his mind, considering what he really wants. He goes to bed early, only to be kept awake by thoughts of Bittle competing with thoughts about George selling the company. They merge in his mind, nudging him awake every time he’s almost asleep. He calls upon the deep breathing and relaxation techniques he learned in the yoga classes his mother made him take with her that summer after rehab, only to give up when his mind keeps wandering back to work and Bittle. He finally gets up and pads to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

The first thing he notices when he turns on the light above the stove is that Sasha II isn’t looking well. She was fine just a few hours ago, bubbly and buoyant. Now she looks a little deflated, her bubbles smaller. It could be just the low light, but she looks a little … grayish? Jack knows, from the advice Bittle has given him and the reading he’s done, that this isn’t some irrevocable damage. There’s still a chance he can revive her. He feeds her extra and moves her to a different spot on the counter. Maybe she needs a change of scenery. He can’t fault her for that.

“Hey there,” he says, feeling thoroughly idiotic for talking to a spongy mass of flour and water. “I know you probably miss your … uh … mother? …but Bittle’s a good guy and he shared you because he cares about people. And I, uh, care about him. So if you could just do what you’re supposed to do so I don’t screw this up, I’d appreciate it. ”

He remembers Bittle told him once that he plays music for his Sasha, so he decides to try that too. Might as well. He finds a Beyoncé playlist on Spotify, figuring Sasha II will appreciate something that sounds like home. The first song, “Don’t Hurt Yourself,” seems too aggressive and the next, “Rocket,” unnecessarily sexual for the situation so he settles on “Crazy in Love,” a song he knows well enough to murmur along to because it was all over the summer it was popular. What has his life become? A month ago he didn’t even know what a sourdough starter was, and now he’s singing “uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh, no, no” to one in the middle of the night.

He leaves his phone next to Sasha II while he prepares a cup of Sleepy Time, wishing he still had a slice of apple pie to go with it. It’s probably the worst thought that could cross his mind because now he’s thinking about Bittle again.

Jack likes to think he’s more observant than most people give him credit for. He’d noticed, for instance, Bittle’s blond hair and slim build and brilliant smile the first time they met, when George was giving Bittle the office tour. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he’d registered that combination as attractive, his preferred type even. And then he’d immediately dismissed that voice in favor of whatever project or email was demanding his attention. Jack’s tendency to focus on the goal doesn’t necessarily preclude romance or recreation or any of the multitude of things that make life enjoyable, but it does help him filter out any unnecessary distractions. He’d just … filtered his initial thoughts about Bittle out before they could become a distraction.

Since then … well, Jack can’t add up all the times he’s _noticed_ Bittle (Eric, Bitty) these past few weeks, but he suspects the number would be high. But looking and noticing are different from feeling and wanting, and it’s only since his talk with George that he’s realized there are _feelings_ attached to all of those little moments, insignificant on their own but building to something monumental.

It’s been a long time since Jack has had a crush on somebody. The awkward, hormone-fueled fumbling that characterized most of his teenage hookups was always a little too fast for him, only easy when helped along with alcohol or the high of a win. It wasn’t until he was in college that he discovered he prefers to take things slowly, get to know somebody before going all in. His last serious relationship ended almost two years ago and he’s been on dates since then but not with anybody he’s really clicked with. Not with anybody he enjoys talking to as much as he enjoys talking to Bittle.

He can’t do anything about the work thing, he decides. It’s not his news to share, wouldn’t be even if George hadn’t asked him not to. He loves his job, and a big part of it is due to George’s leadership. She’s a good, fair boss who isn’t afraid of speaking her mind or making tough decisions. She’ll do what’s best for the company and her family, even if it means selling. Things were tough in their industry pre-pandemic and now things are tough everywhere. George says as much during every staff meeting. This extra burden she’s saddled Jack with is no different than her telling him she’s close to signing a hot author. It’s the price he pays for being a leader, somebody she trusts. (He can appreciate, though, why his standing in the company would make a relationship with a colleague difficult.)

The other thing, the way he feels about Bittle, that’s not something he can keep to himself. He doesn’t even want to. He can dance around it, try to pretend he thinks of Bittle as nothing more than a friend, but he’s pretty sure his face will give him away the next time they talk. He might as well just get it over with and tell him how he feels. They’re both adults. If Bittle shoots him down it will be awkward but he’ll get over it. Maybe Bittle will want to stop talking to him entirely, maybe they’ll be able to move past it and remain friends, but at least the current situation means they won’t have to awkwardly avoid each other in the break room.

Which only leaves him with a new dilemma: How do you ask somebody out when you can’t actually go out? He can’t exactly say, “Do you want to go to dinner?” when there’s no hope of actually going to dinner. Ditto for a movie or sporting event or museum exhibition. What do people in long distance relationships do?

(He suspects the answer is a lot of phone sex but that seems a little presumptive at this point.)

Jack finishes his tea but he’s still not quite tired so he ends up on the couch, watches the late shows until his eyes finally get heavy and he falls asleep. He dreams about making bread with Bittle, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in his kitchen while Bittle guides him through the recipe, brushing hands as they reach for the same measuring cup. It’s intimate in a non-sexual way, makes him feel warm and safe and _happy_.

He wakes just before dawn, back and legs stiff from the way he slept on the couch and a little disoriented thanks to the abrupt transition from the warmth of his dream to what looks like gray skies outside his window. He winces as he gets to his feet and feels his joints protest. In spite of it all he feels better, mentally if not physically. A quick trip to the kitchen reveals Sasha II is also looking better in the light of day. It’s beginning to drizzle outside but he changes for a run anyway.

It starts pouring midway through his run, and all Jack can do is laugh. He sprints the last mile and a half home at a pace he probably hasn’t hit since his college days. By the time he gets home he’s drenched and chilled to the bone but it doesn’t matter. Riding high on fresh air and endorphins, he pulls his phone out before he even makes it through the front door. The screen is slick with rain drops and it takes a few tries to unlock and find Bittle’s contact info. It rings three times before Bittle answers with a sleepy-sounding “Jack?” Shit. He was probably asleep.

“I, er, you’re asleep, I can call back.” Jack fumbles as his anxiety ratchets up a notch.

“No, it’s fine, sweetheart. I should be up anyway. Something about the rain just makes me want to sleep in, you know?”

“I ran in it.”

Bittle’s giggle is low and affectionate. “Of course you did.”

 _Tell him, tell him, tell him_ plays on a loop in Jack’s head and he tries to begin the speech he rehearsed on his run until he was satisfied with the wording: _Bittle, over the past few weeks you’ve become a good friend, and I know it might be awkward because we work together but I really like you and I want to ask you out_. He _tries_ to stick to the script, but what comes out is, “Do you want to date me?”

“Wha’— _date you_?” Bittle squeaks

“Er, I mean, would you want to go on a date? With me?” It’s very very silent on the other end of the line. “Bittle?”

“Sorry, I think I might still be dreamin’. Can you call back when I’m awake?”

Jack smiles. Bittle sounds at least three shades more Southern in the morning before he’s had his coffee. “You’re not dreaming.”

More silence, but before Jack can really start to panic Bittle asks, “Are we talking hypotheticals, or are you _actually_ asking me out on a date, mister?” There’s a note of caution in his voice.

“More like asking you _in_ on a date. Unless you want to wait. Or if you don’t want to at all, that’s okay too.”

“No! I want,” Bittle says, voice warm and gentle now. Jack has never seen Bittle’s bedroom but he can picture him lying in bed, hair sleep mussed and blankets pulled up to his chin. “I just … this is not what I was expecting this morning. Or … ever?”

“I’m sorry I caught you off guard.”

“’S’okay,” Bittle says quietly. “I don’t know if I ever would have worked up the nerve to say it first.”

That’s about as much as Jack needs to confirm Bittle likes him back. At once, all the tension he didn’t even realize he’d been holding in his back and shoulders melts away. He also realizes he’s very cold and very wet, the rain dripping from his clothes creating a puddle around his feet. He pokes at the puddle with the toe of his running shoe, watching the water he’s displaced rearrange into new amorphous shapes on the wood floor. “Great! That’s great. I mean —”

“I know what you mean, sweetheart,” Bittle says, and he sounds more relaxed, too.

“I called you as soon as I got back from my run. I should probably shower and change. Can I call you back?”

“Oh goodness, yes! My gosh, you must be freezing. You should have done that before you called.”

“I didn’t want to wait,” Jack says simply.

“Well, it doesn’t do either one of us a lick of good if you get pneumonia from standing there in your wet clothes. Go! I’ll be here when you’re dry. I should get up anyway.” There’s a rustling sound and the creak of bed springs and a soft thump that Jack assumes is Bittle’s feet hitting the floor. “Ugh, I need coffee,” he moans.

“Go get your coffee,” Jack says. “I’ll call you.”

He can hear the smile in Bittle’s voice when he says, simply, “I’ll talk to you soon.”

*

A half hour later, Jack is showered and dressed, though still not quite warm. He mixes a protein shake and puts on a pot of coffee, debates logging on to check his work email before deciding he won’t be able to focus on anything until he calls Bittle back.

“Hey there, Mister Zimmermann,” Bittle answers on the first ring. He sounds more awake this time around, like he’s already finished his first cup of coffee. “I believe you mentioned something about a date?”

If you’d asked Jack yesterday at this time, he would have insisted Bittle was just a friend. Now they’re planning a date. It still seems a little unreal. “What do you normally do on a first date?”

“Have dinner. Go to a movie. Bake something together, if I like the guy and want to invite him inside.”

“We’ve already done those things,” Jack points out.

“We have, haven’t we? Gosh, have we been dating this whole time?”

“You _did_ introduce me to your friends.” Not to mention, George was clearly under the impression their relationship had reached the physical stage. He wonders if he should tell Bittle, if he’d be amused or horrified.

“That’s what you do when you want to introduce a new friend to your established friend group!” Bittle protests. Then, a little resignedly, “But yeah, I know what it looked like. Those two couldn’t stop chirping me after that. Larissa …”

“Larissa what?”

“We ran into you in the break room about a week after I started at work. You probably don’t even remember, you and George were gabbing about something or other on your way to a meeting and you totally ignored me when I pointed out the pie I’d brought in. Larissa may have, uh, caught me looking at you on your way out.”

“On my way ou — _oh_.” Jack laughs, realizing exactly what Bittle must have been looking at.

“You wear those dress pants _very_ well, Mister Zimmermann.” Bittle’s flirting sounds a lot like his chirping, but there’s a suggestiveness to his tone that makes Jack’s face heat up. He glances down at his gray sweat pants, a far cry from what he’s pretty sure Bittle is remembering.

“I hope the currently reality isn’t too disappointing. I’ve been living in sweats and basketball shorts for two months. I can’t remember the last time I wore anything with buttons. Or a belt.”

“This is better. Like we skipped right to the comfortable part. Although, I do love a man in a suit.”

“Noted,” Jack says, already planning where he might take Bittle that would require a suit. When things open again. Because he’s pretty sure he’ll still want to be doing this when things open again.

“What do you think of bowling?”

“Bowling?” Jack repeats dumbly, brain scrambling to catch up.

“For our date? I counted while I was waiting for you to call back and I think I have enough empty beer cans and toilet paper rolls and other things in my recycling bin that I can set up like bowling pins. I bet you do too, if you look.”

Bittle’s idea is kind of brilliant. “Is that what you used to do to pass the time in your frat house?”

“Beer pong, usually,” Bittle replies cheerfully, not at all refuting the accusation. “And once a couple of the boys found an old set of golf clubs in the basement so we set up a mini golf course throughout the house. That was fun, until Holster broke a window.” And then Bittle’s off, reminiscing about his college days and the “boys,” the hockey roadies and “epic kegsters” they’d throw after a particularly significant win. “Oops, I guess I got off track,” he apologizes, and Jack doesn’t even mind, not the way he used to when Bittle’s ramblings used to totally derail their work meetings. He likes Bittle’s stories, likes the way his voice pitches higher when he gets excited about something and the way he giggles at his own stories, like he’s hearing them for the first time. “We were talking bowling. What do you think?”

“I think I have some stuff,” Jack concedes.

“Great! When do we wanna do this?”

As much as Jack wants the answer to be _now_ , he needs a little time to do this right. “Friday? After work?”

“It’ll be something to look forward to,” Bittle says. “I know we’ll talk before then but …”

“It feels different,” Jack finishes. The absurdity of their situation makes him laugh. They talk to each other every day, they’ll eat dinner “together” tonight. There’s no doubt in Jack’s mind that they’d be doing the same thing on Friday even if they weren’t having this conversation right now. Nothing has changed except for what they’re calling it.

“It’s a date,” Bittle says, because that’s what it is.

*

When Jack Zimmermann commits to something he goes all in. He’s not going to let a pandemic, Bittle’s insistence that they’ve already reached the comfortable part of their relationship, or even physical distance get in the way of a memorable first date. Some people might call him overzealous, but his father would say he’s just deploying the “Zimmermann Charm.” Whatever it is, Jack comes by it honestly.

“Don’t cook on Friday night,” he tells Bittle, then places two orders with a neighborhood restaurant that’s been offering a limited menu. He isn’t sure what Bittle likes — Does he eat fries? Or would he prefer roasted brussels sprouts? Maybe a salad? — so he orders a couple burgers and one of every side to be delivered to his apartment, reasoning it’s always nice to have leftovers. He texts Larissa for help with the next part. _Do you know if Bittle is allergic to flowers? Does he like flowers?_

She responds with three sets of emoji eyes and for several anxiety-inducing minutes Jack thinks that’s all she has to say on the matter but then she comes through:

_Bits is one of those sappy romantics. He likes roses but don’t kill yourself trying to track some down._

_Go get ‘im, tiger._

The woman who answers the phone at the florist is helpful and surprisingly understanding about the unusual situation. Maybe he and Bittle aren’t the only ones attempting to navigate quarantine dating. She can’t promise roses, she tells Jack, but she notes his preference and assures him she’ll make something suitable for a first date.

That taken care of, he turns his attention to what he’s going to wear. Even Jack wouldn’t wear athletic gear on a first date, and despite Bittle’s stated preference for “a man in a suit,” a suit seems a little impractical for bowling. He splits the difference and chooses his best-fitting pair of jeans and a Falconers t-shirt, a nod to their shared love of hockey. If the sleeves happen to be a little tight around his biceps, well — Jack flexes experimentally — that may also have factored into his decision to wear this shirt.

The last thing he does before calling Bittle for their FaceTime date is set up empty seltzer cans in an approximation of a bowling pin arrangement. He tries it out in three different spaces before settling on the end of the hallway because it most closely mimics the feel of a bowling alley. He grabs the lacrosse ball he uses to massage tight glutes and shoulders and attempts a few practice throws, knocking several down on the first try. It will do.

When Bittle answers Jack’s FaceTime call, Jack’s heart actually feels like it skips a beat. Bittle’s quarantine style has always been a little more put together than Jack’s, but tonight it’s clear he’s taken extra care with his appearance. By now his hair has grown out enough that it curls around his ears, but he’s put some sort of product in it to tame the cowlick Jack always notices him exasperatedly pat down. And Jack isn’t sure how he managed it but he’s wearing a bowling shirt, a bright coral and turquoise thing that’s just _Bittle_ , even though Jack is pretty certain Bittle wouldn’t be caught dead in a bowling shirt outside of this situation. “Jack Zimmermann, you did _not_ send me two dozen roses,” Bittle admonishes. They’re visible on the counter behind him, yellow and orange. “And dinner, too? Lord, I’m going to be eating leftovers for days.” He tilts his camera so Jack can see the complete spread on the kitchen table, compact boxes filled with burgers and five different sides.

“I wanted it to feel real.”

“If this is how you order every time you go to a restaurant …”

“No!” Jack protests, laughing. “I just didn’t know what you’d want, and I didn’t want to ask you and ruin the surprise.”

“Well, I hope you ordered dinner for yourself, mister. I’m not sure how I feel about enjoying all of this if you’re going to be drinking one of your sad protein shakes.”

Jack tilts his camera so Bittle can see his own spread. There’s less variation because he knows what he likes, but he’d ordered enough to have leftovers as well.

Eating dinner like this is simultaneously novel and comfortable. Bittle brings out a candle “because it’s romantic,” but he can’t keep a straight face as he struggles to get the flame to catch on the wick and they decide it’s funnier than it is romantic. Jack points out that despite spending most of their evenings over the past six weeks just like this, this is the first time they’ve eaten the same meal. “Now _that’s_ romantic,” Bittle declares, and Jack has to agree. Why can’t sharing a burger and fries over FaceTime be romantic? They’ve already moved past the awkwardness Jack felt in the beginning, when letting Bittle see his home and watch him eat on camera left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. Now it just feels normal.

They take a quick break after dinner to clean up. Jack can hear the pop music Bittle’s playing, background noise he’s come to associate with Bittle even if he can’t identify the artists, through his laptop’s speakers as he stuffs takeout containers and wrappers in the trash and puts his leftovers in the fridge.

“Do you have a ball?” Bittle asks when they’re both ready.

Jack holds up the lacrosse ball. “You?”

“Tennis ball. It might be too bouncy but I tested it and it works okay. Yours is clever. You set up?”

Jack nods. He moves the computer to an end table he’s set up at the beginning of the hallway up at an angle to capture the “lane.” From what he can see on Bittle’s end, he’s done something similar. But while Jack managed to find ten matching cans to serve as bowling pins, Bittle’s are a random assortment of bottles, cans, and even a cardboard toilet paper tube.

“Ready?” Bittle asks, leaning into the frame and waving his tennis ball around.

“Ready,” Jack confirms. “How are we doing this?”

“One at a time, two throws each just like the real thing, keep our own score?” Bittle suggests.

“You didn’t spend much time thinking this through, did you?” Jack chirps.

“I came up with the game! Sorry it’s short on details,” Bittle says, mock indignantly.

“It’s fine,” Jack laughs. “We’ll figure it out.”

They don’t really figure it out. It’s noisy and messy and it takes entirely too long to set up between sets, not to mention the time spent scoring and chasing down errant balls when they bounce off the walls and roll under furniture. After the first four or five throws, they stop keeping score at Bittle’s insistence and instead practice increasingly elaborate trick shots. Jack can’t say it’s a waste of time, not when he can admire the way Bittle’s camera captures his backside at just the right angle as he sets up his shots, but it’s not the most efficient game and the novelty wears off quickly.

“No fair!” Jack protests when Bittle bounces his tennis ball off the wall and ends up with a strike. He does a little victory dance, rolling his hips in time to the music he’s playing. “That wasn’t a regulation throw.”

“You gonna pout about it, or show me what you’re made of?” Bittle asks with a cheeky wink and another slow roll of his hips.

Jack’s next throw goes wild, the ball careening into the wall at the end of the hallway and knocking three bottles down on the rebound. It’s the icing on top of this ridiculous cake. Jack pumps his fist and does his own victory dance, making sure the camera captures all of his best angles.

They call it quits after about 45 minutes, when Bittle sheepishly tells Jack his neighbor has started banging on their shared wall. “I’m gonna have to bake so many apology pies,” he laments. “It was worth it, though. Maybe a little better in theory than in execution, but — ” 

“Not bad for a first date,” Jack finishes. “Given the circumstances.”

“It was a great first date,” Bittle whispers.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Oh! I don’t know. Just feels like I should now that I know my neighbors can hear me.” He giggles. “Kind of feels like I’m trying to sneak in past curfew.”

“I bet you never stayed out past curfew,” Jack says fondly.

“I bet you did.”

“Among other things. I was kind of a jerk when I was a teenager.”

“Well, Mr. Zimmermann, you’ve been a perfect gentleman tonight.”

“You have, too.” It’s hard to focus on anything other than Bittle right now. “I think this is the part where I kiss you goodnight. If I could kiss you. I wish I could kiss you.”

“I’d let you,” Bittle replies. “And I’d invite you in to bake something for dessert, too.”

“Rain check,” Jack whispers.

“Rain check,” Bittle whispers back, a little wistfully. His eyes are big and wide, his mouth pulled downward in a sad sort of resignation that Jack feels deep in his bones. Bittle’s somber expression is at odds with his vibrant bowling shirt and rumpled hair. He’s so gorgeous, and it’s so unfair that Jack can’t reach out and touch him right now.

He tries to imagine taking Bittle in his arms and holding him close, kissing him, burying his face in his hair. He wonders how their bodies would fit together, _if_ they’d fit together. If it would be awkward, or feel as natural as everything else about their relationship. He wonders if this connection they have, like so much about this strange time, is real and permanent or just a temporary place holder for all the things they can’t do, all the people they can’t see.

He desperately wants to believe they’re building something that will last.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the thrilling conclusion. Or something. I started this in March, in the first days of sheltering in place where I live, and I thought it would be a quick little fic I would finish in a week. (I have a tendency to do this.) I appreciate everyone who has followed along and commented -- I know these are challenging and stressful times and I hope that this fic has been an escape for those of you who need it.

Gradually, things begin to return to normal. Or, whatever approximates “normal” these days. It’s less a return to normal than it is learning how to navigate an altered landscape, like walking on a beach when you’re used to ice under your feet.

George starts talking about opening the office once she gets approval from the building’s management. She wants to be cautious, and suggests employees who are comfortable come in for half-day shifts on a staggered, every other day schedule to limit potential exposure. But things have been working out so well with everyone working from home, she adds, that she’s considering not resigning the lease when it’s up at the end of the year. “From a business standpoint, it makes sense,” she says. “If we can cut costs, it puts us in a better position financially.” She tells the staff, with her typical blunt confidence, that she’s turned down an offer to buy the company. But, she adds, there’s still a lot of uncertainty in the industry as a whole.

Later that evening Bittle has just talked Jack through his first sourdough bake and they’re waiting for their loaves to finish baking when Bittle clears his throat. All the confidence that was on display as he talked Jack through each step, from kneading the dough to putting it in the oven, has been replaced by a hesitancy Jack remembers from the early days of their friendship. “I know a lot is up in the air right now, with work and everything really,” he begins cautiously, “but do you see us … do you see _this_ as a long-term thing?”

“God, yes,” Jack replies, without hesitation, and has to stop himself from revealing exactly how long-term he wants this to be. “Of course I want that. Do you not—”

“No, I _do_ ,” Bittle says, his words swallowed by something that sounds like laughter or a sigh of relief or maybe both. “Gosh, of course I do, I just had to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“I mean, you might not feel the same way when all of this is in your face,” Jack says, gesturing down at the sweat-stained t-shirt he didn’t bother to change out of after his evening run. “Some things are probably best experienced from a distance.”

“Psh. I spent my formative years in locker rooms too.”

Jack grins, and Bittle grins back, and it’s like they’ve decided something without really speaking its name.

“Work is gonna be different,” Bittle acknowledges. “It’ll be kind of hard to keep us a secret, with the way I feel about you. I guess it’s a good thing we’ll have limited office hours. Makes it harder to slip up in front of everyone.”

“George knows about us,” Jack blurts out. “I’m sorry, I kind of let it slip during a one-on-one.”

Bittle chuckles. “And she’s okay with it?”

“It’s … not ideal, is what she said. But there’s no official policy that prohibits co-workers from dating. If I were your boss it would be different.”

“We might not even have jobs by this time next year,” Bittle reasons. Jack can tell he’s trying for glib but it comes out sort of morose.

Jack sighs, thinking. With the Prologue offer off the table, George isn’t thinking about reducing staff. But as she reminded them, she doesn’t know what the future holds. “I don’t know,” he finally says.

“I think your job is safe,” Bittle optimistically tells him. “George thinks of you as her second-in-command. She needs you.”

“Your job is safe too,” he reassures Bittle. “Nobody can do what you do. Not really.”

“George could,” Bittle counters. “Didn’t she used to, in the early days?”

“George did everything in the early days. But she can’t do your job now, no way. Do you see her recreating recipes in her kitchen at night just to have something to put on Instagram? She can’t even do an art project with her kids without getting bored.”

“That’s for sure,” Bittle says, sounding a little lighter. “You know, I think it’s a good idea to have a backup plan anyway. I’ve been thinking of writing a book of my own.”

“Really?” Jack asks. Bittle has never talked about writing before.

“These past few months have had me thinking about how my own cooking has changed. Out of necessity, really. I’ve been relying a lot more on frozen and shelf-stable pantry staples ‘cause the farmers market is cancelled and I just don’t want to go out to the store for fresh meat and produce more than once a week. But if you don’t know what to do with those staples they get old pretty fast. I bet a lot of people are looking for ideas.”

“That’s actually a great idea,” Jack says, thinking about his own over-reliance on frozen chicken breasts. Usually he prepares one with salt and pepper and eats it with rice or pasta, but Bittle’s been teaching him to make simple sauces. His favorites are a sriracha mayo and a two-ingredient marinara sauce. Bittle called those “baby steps” and now has him growing basil in a little pot in his kitchen window so they can tackle pesto.

“It’s funny how things change,” Bittle says reflectively. “For so long the trend has been to use local and artisanal ingredients; it takes a pandemic and a global food shortage to get people to come around to the convenience foods their grandparents relied on after World War II.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a book proposal,” Jack notes.

Bittle hums with satisfaction. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we, Mr. Zimmermann?”

Now that they’re dating — or whatever this is they’re doing — Jack has come to love the endearment in all the ways Bittle delivers it: indignant when Jack is chirping him, flirtatious when Bittle is chirping Jack back, downright sultry when they’re both in their beds with the lights out and things get a little heated. Right now the softer, more suggestive “Mr. Zimmermann,” sends a warm thrill through Jack’s body because he knows where it leads.

It turns out phone sex is great stress relief. Jack hasn’t had trouble sleeping since they’ve begun to incorporate it into their nightly calls.

“We can — ” Jack raises an eyebrow — “if you want to.”

Bittle, eyes wide, simply nods vigorously. One of the biggest and most delightful surprises as they’ve navigated this new aspect of their relationship is that Bittle is a little shy when it comes to sex. Or maybe it’s just that neither is very practiced when it comes to doing it this way.When they’re finally together, Jack hopes, it will feel more natural.

“Say those things you were sayin’ last night,” Bittle says.

“Show me what you’re wearing, first.” He can only see Bittle from the chest up.

Bittle gives a little nonchalant shrug and adjusts his camera to show off the scandalously short red shorts that are just tight enough to reveal, well, everything.

“ _T’_ es _un méchant pétard_. ”

“Mm,” Bittle sighs.

“ _Je peux dire ce que je veux et tu pigeras pas un mot_.”

“Keep talkin’, Sweetpea.”

“ _J'ai oublié de sortir les poubelles hier soir_.”

Bittle’s eyes flutter shut, his lashes casting shadows upon his face, and Jack notices Bittle’s hand dip below the waistband of those shorts as his own does the same.

“ _Je t'aime mon lapin_.”

Bittle’s eyes fly open. “Bread!”

“What? No, _lapin_ is — ”

“No, the bread! I can’t believe you made me forget about the bread!”

“ _I_ made you forget?” Jack asks.

“You! You with those eyes and your French and your … your _hands_!”

“Whoa. I think that last one is all you, bud.”

“I’m _pretending_ ,” Bittle retorts, indignant. “Just until I get your real hands all over me.”

Jack groans and readjusts his shorts. Bittle saying things like _that_ doesn’t exactly help the situation. But he’s right. A quick glance at the oven timer tells him the bread is due to come out in two minutes. They don’t have time for this right now.

Jack’s first loaf of sourdough bread is “kind of sad.” He pokes at the misshapen loaf with the tip of his serrated knife. The outermost part looks a little crispy, the top not dark enough. On Jack's laptop screen, Bittle is showing off a crusty, golden brown loaf.

“It’s a great first try,” Bittle says, and Jack knows the praise is genuine. “Nobody makes perfect sourdough the first time. Your next one will be better.”

It makes Jack feel better, to know that Bittle has so much faith in him. To know Bittle is already planning for a “next one.”

Sasha II is still sitting on the counter, ready to begin again. For the next one and the next one and the next one. Bittle told Jack people keep their starters for years. This is just a beginning.

*

On the first day of June, Jack wakes before his alarm and does some deep breathing exercises to calm his racing heart. Today’s the day they’re allowed to go into the office. It’s just for a meeting, the first in-person staff meeting in months. But that’s not why he’s anxious. He’s anxious because today, he and Bittle will be face-to-face for the first time in months.

Jack runs, drinks his usual recovery shake, and showers and it’s _still_ only 7:30 so he heads into work early, stops at a Starbucks drive-thru on the way and gets a black coffee for himself and an iced latte for Bittle. “Do you have that pumpkin stuff?” he asks the barista through the intercom.

“Pumpkin spice?”

“Euh, yeah.” He _thinks_ that’s what Bittle was talking about the time he mentioned missing his “PSLs.”

“It’s June,” the barista says. “Pumpkin spice doesn’t come back until August.”

“Oh, then just a regular iced latte is fine.” Bittle probably won’t mind.

He beats even George to the office and drops Bittle’s latte off on his desk before settling in at his own and checking his email. A layer of dust covers everything on the desk, from the framed photo of his parents to the stack of ARCs for books that should be on bookstore shelves by now. He grabs a disinfectant wipe from the tub he bought right before the work-from-home orders went into effect and wipes everything down, grimacing as he drops the dirty cloth into his trash bin.

At 8:30, too anxious to sit still (the coffee probably wasn’t a great idea), Jack gets up and takes the stairs all the way down to the lobby. He’ll take a lap around the building. It’s something he tries to do once or twice a day when he’s been sitting and staring at screens for too long.

Admittedly, he usually doesn’t take the first lap before 9 a.m.

He’s rounding the corner to head back through the building’s revolving door when he sees him. Walking toward Jack from the other direction, dressed in crisply ironed khakis and a light blue button down and carrying his familiar leather messenger bag, is Bittle.

Jack spots him first but before he can call out to him Bittle looks up from his phone. He notices the moment Bittle notices him; his eyes go wide and his mouth falls open into a perfect round ‘O.’ And then their eyes meet.

“Jack.”

“Bits.”

And suddenly Bittle is in Jack’s arms, head pressed into his chest as Jack buries his face in his hair and inhales the scent of his shampoo. It’s sweet, like peaches, and he smiles because it’s just so Bittle. They fit together perfectly; Jack doesn’t know why he worried they wouldn’t. Pressed up against each other, Jack can feel Bittle’s heart beating just as quickly as his own.

“Lord, honey, I’ve been dreaming about this for so long,” Bittle murmurs, and Jack realizes the sudden warmth on his chest is Bittle’s tears soaking through his shirt.

“I know,” Jack says, choking back his own tears. “I know, Bits.”

“Now that I can hold you I don’t think I’m ever gonna let you go. Hope you don’t mind spending the rest of your life right here.”

“Ha ha. I don’t mind.” As much as Jack would love to whisk Bittle away to some private island sex cabana with nothing but each other (and a kitchen, because Bittle will need a kitchen) for entertainment, he’d be happy to spend the rest of his life right here on a sidewalk in downtown Providence if it means he never has to leave Bittle’s side. His body has been calling out for the warmth of another — for Bittle specifically — for so long he’s not sure he _can_ move from this spot.

But as soon as he has that thought, Bittle pulls away. “I just need to look at you,” he explains, placing one hand on Jack’s bicep and one on Jack’s cheek. His smile is radiant. “You shaved.”

After months of staring at Bittle’s face rendered in pixels, Jack thought he had it memorized. Now that he’s staring at the real thing he notices all the things the camera didn’t pick up: tiny smile lines in the corners of his eyes, a few freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. His teeth are small and perfect, a weird thing to notice, but Jack wants to notice everything about Bittle. “You cut your hair.” It’s short and neat, the “infernal cowlick” plastered down the way Jack remembers from before. He’d gotten used to Bittle’s longer, more casual style.

“Larissa did it last night. She used to do it for me in college.”

“I think I miss the curls,” Jack admits, reaching up to caress the spot where Bittle’s hair used to curl over his ear.

“I miss your scruff,” Bittle retorts, but he’s smiling. “Guess I’ll have to get used to your terrible face.”

“I thought you’d be tired of it by now.”

“Never. It’s my favorite face.” Bittle places his other hand on the other side of Jack’s face. His hands are warm and just a bit rough, not smooth like Jack expected. “Can we kiss now? For real?”

And now they’re kissing in the middle of the sidewalk. Even if the street weren’t deserted, Jack wouldn’t care. He’s wanted this for so long. Bittle has too, if the breathy sweet nothings he’s murmuring against Jack’s lips are any indication. Jack slides one hand down Bittle’s back, lets it rest on the curve of his ass as he pulls him closer.

“Get a room.” They jump apart at the sound of Larissa’s voice. She’s standing a few feet away wearing a shit-eating grin. Behind her, Alexei and George look equally amused.

“We’re very happy for you but you’re blocking the door,” George says.

“So many fines, Zimmermann.” Larissa winks. “Have Bits explain those to you.”

“I accept jam instead of fine,” Alexei adds.

“Y’all _stop_ ,” Bittle chides, but he’s smiling too. “Let us have this moment.”

George shakes her head in exasperation. “Meeting’s in five,” she reminds them as they pass through the doors.

Jack steals one more kiss as their co-workers fade from view because he intends to make the most of every one of these five minutes.

“We have a meeting to get to,” Bittle whispers.

“I know.” Jack kisses him again. Reluctantly, they separate and he takes Bittle’s hand in his as they walk into the building together. “To be continued later?”

“What do you wanna do later?”

Jack thinks about all the things he wants to do with Bittle, all the places he’s missed. He wants to take him to dinner at his favorite Cuban restaurant, and walk in the park afterward. He wants to stroll the farmers market side by side, and stop at every booth. He wants to take Bittle to a hockey game or, better yet, join a beer league together. He wants to fly to Montreal and introduce Bittle to his parents, show him the rink he skated on as a kid.

But none of those things are for today. If Jack is lucky, they have a whole lifetime ahead of them to do those ordinary and wonderful things together. Today, he just wants to experience the simple things they’ve missed out on all these weeks they’ve been falling in love: bumping into each other as they cook dinner, eating pie side-by-side in front of the TV, kissing on the couch and in Jack’s bed, falling asleep tangled up in each other. He wants to feel Bittle’s hands on his body and learn what he tastes like. He wants to just _be_ with Bittle, no screens between them.

“You know,” Jack says, placing an arm around Bittle’s shoulders and guiding him toward the elevator, “I kind of just want to hang out at home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I appreciate every single comment! I’m on Tumblr at [doggernaut](https://doggernaut.tumblr.com) Feel free to drop by and say hi!


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